Kmeme shorts
by Doxx
Summary: Collection of my contributions for the LJ kmeme worth checking out if you haven't already done so , generally alistair/zevran smut.
1. Conflict

Alistair clentched his fists so tight he thought he might shatter his knuckles.

Zevran had been regaling some tale of a nameless woman in Antiva, spinning the story with such grace and articulation that even Morrigan had come over to listen, and somehow Alistair had managed to say something which betrayed his inexsperience. Zevran, through a wicked grin, had asked directly if he ever had the -pleasure-, and Alistair found every word he tried to utter stuck in his thoart. Now everyone was laughing at him, loudest of all Zevran.

He stormed from the campsite, Morrigan cackling after him, and Zevran felt a familar dread stroke the back of his mind. Alistair was angry, furious... and angry men could be dangerous. He knew he'd not sleep easy until this matter was settled, lest he find Alistair hovering over his bed, sword in hand. He made some more jovial comments, teasing Sten in his usual manner to ensure the other were not alerted to the fact that when he left the rosy glow of the campfire, he headed in the same direction Alistair had gone.

He was easy to track, a charging brunto would have caused less damage. Zevran slowed his pace as he heard sounds ahead, Alistair berating himself viciously, and swearing on the revenage he would get on 'that damnable assassin'. Sighing softly, Zevran was grateful his Crow instints were still sharp, but he was not looking forward to confronting Alistair. He'd seen the raw strenght of the man, and had watched him battle on furiously with wounds that caused Wynn to pale once she got a chance to attend to them. He slowly tipped both his daggers in thick coating of poison, nothing lethal, but enough to at least mean he had a back up plan if Alistair took it into his head to simply cut down the ex-crow.

He coughed, once, to avoid surprising Alistair as he emerged from the shadows. Alistair spun round, his eyes dark.

"You..." he growled, and drew his sword. Zevran watched, not yet revealing his own weapons, as Alistair's hand tightened and then unclenched on the hilt of the blade. The dark forest seemed to hold its breath as they sized each other up, waiting to see what the other would do.

Slowly, in a voice which was purposfully so soft Alistair had to strain to listen, Zevran whispered, "I am sorry, friend Alistair, I had not meant to embarass you so...."

something behind Alistair's eye broke, and the templar lunged forwards, catching Zevran off guard.

"I'm no friend of yours!" In comparasion, Alistair's words were sharp and clipped, spoken through a snarl. The sword came down upon Zevran's dagger, and he was forced to deflect, knowing that he could not match the power behind the blow. Zevran was driven backwards, his daggers connecting with the sword, pushing it from his body each time Alistair swung it, but realising he could not defend against this fury for long.

Alistair threw himself behind a low blow, aiming for the assassin's legs, when Zevran kicked him. The boot made contact with the shoulder, not enough to wound but in just the right place to cause his hold on the sword to faulter. Moving quickly Zevran dropped one of his daggers and grabbed the sword, throwing it out of Alistair's reach. He was about to straighten, to claim his win when an unexspected hand made contact with his face. Fingers grabbbing at a long ear, Alistair yanked Zevran forwards. Zevran made a small sharp gasp in pain

"You fight dirty!" he hissed, part in admiration as he brought his elbow up under Alistair's arm, catching it in a painful stretch. He pressed the advantage, until Alistair let go of his ear.

They were close now, eyes locked together.

"But I fight dirtier..." a low sound, almost a chuckle as Zevran sprung forward, knocking Alistair to his back. Alistair thrashed, but Zevran had his own anger to fuel him now, and he pressed a knee hard against Alistair's groin, enough to shock the warden. Face full of gnashing teeth and fury, Alistair could only snarl as Zevran plunged the dagger into the soil by his head, pausing just long enough to let Alistair observe the dark paste marring the sliver sheen, letting that information sink in before grasping his hair and pulling Alistair's head back so that his thoart was exsposed and dangerously close to the blade. Alistair held himself there, shaking with rage but not moving for fear of slitting his own thoart against the dagger. His eyes tried to see the assassin upon him, but his position did not allow it. Zevran watched the blood pulse beneath him, rapid and hot, and tried to calm his own breathing. Suddenly it was hard to let go of his temper. He had planned to show Alistair just how skilled he was in combat, and that if Alistair wanted to fight him, he'd not go down easily. Perhaps, if needed he'd give Alistair a small nick with a posioned blade, let him feel firely poison run through his blood, -scare- him. But Alistair was proving a typical grey warden, set upon ruining his careful plans. He could hear Alistair's breath still heavy and fast, the rage inside him not yet abated. Zevran licked his lips.

Alistair jerked as Zevran ran a hand down the side of the warden, fingers tracing out the outline of his ribcage, down to his hips. As he started to serch for for the buckles of the armour, Alistair's eyes grew wide with realisation. He kicked in an effort to dislogde the elf, and felt fingers clench against his hair, and he felt the cold touch of metal against his neck. He couldn't even swallow, as the chill of air hit his flesh as Zevran pulled the armour from his thigh.

It was a calcuated move, risky but then so was having a pent-up warrior so close to him. Zevran knew he couldn't hold Alistair indefinateately, and that at some point he'd have to either let him up or... stop him ever getting up again. The latter would cause all manner of complications, so he'd have to find another way of resolving the situation. He had tried fighting Alistair directly, but if that continued one of them was going to get seriously hurt so perhaps letting Alistair gain a victory a different way would suffice. Of course, he would need a little encouragement.

Fingers drifted against his inside thigh, and under the press of his knee he could feel Alistair start to stiffen. Shifting alightly so Alistair could see him, he bent down to alistair ear.

"In fact, I fight very dirty..." he ran a hot tongue over his ear, grining as Alistair grunted in resistance. As a skilled hand drew his erection out into the night air, fingers stroking along the lenght and curling around the base.

Zevren pretended to be surprised as Alistair finally fought back, swinging his body sharply sideways, away from the dagger and sending the smaller elf sprawling to the ground. Heavy hands pressed down on his shoulders, pinning Zevran down while Alistair panted heavily. His head swam with emotions, he wanted very much to sink his sword into the assassin and finally be done with the endless teasing and taunts, but the damnable elf had awoke a new sensation in him. Zevran was squirming under the templar's weight, face down and struggling to draw breath. Slowly, holding Zevran's thin wrists together with one hand above his head, he pulled at the assassin's leather trousers with his free hand. The sight of the tanned skin, soft and forbidden settled his mind. After all, the elf had tried to do the same to him, it would be a fitting revenge.

Zevran couldn't see what was happening, but he heard Alistair's breath change, growing deeper and rougher as he felt his hands exploring his body. Hiding a satified smirk he made a couple of small, soft whinning noises in the dirt, designed to enflame. He heard alistair's lips part, and a slow suckling noise. He guessed that Alistair was licking his own finger, and when he felt something hot and damp press against him, he had to bite back on his lips in anticipation.

Alistair was a novice, but desire and lust guided his hand as he slowly develed deeper into Zevran, watching the reactions as he curled his finger. Zevran no longer had to force himself to make noises, the low moans were genuine and his hips twitched around Alistair's finger.

Alistair felt himself growing unbareably heated, and he removed his hand suddenly, causing the elf to buck. A frim hand dragged his hips futher upwards, and then he felt Alistair pressing into him, hot and heavy and hard.

Zevran cried out as Alistair begane to move, his thrusts desperate and his breath like steam against his back. He felt teeth on his shoulder, and he arched into Alistair, urging him deeper. Biting hard enough that it would leave marks Alistair clutched the elf in towards him, driving down with everything he had. The sounds coming from the assassin were delicious, and the way his body heaved and twitched with every movement made him feel like he might brust, but nothing could compare to the tightness and warmth he felt surrounding his manhood. Pounding faster until he could hold back no more, he let out a low, breathy sigh as he felt himself release inside Zevran. The smaller elf jerked a final time, and the smell of arsoual filled the air.

They fell back, panting and fighting for air, heat rolling off their bodies in the cool forest air. Alistair's eyes had turned softer, his rage spent. Zevran allowed himself a satified grin at the templar, shyly avoiding eye contact and trying to get to his feet.

"I... Uh.. I... Marker! That was... Wow.... But what are we going to tell the others...." Alistair struggled with words, not looking directly at Zevran.

"We were sparring. It was a good fight, I know i certainly learnt much from it."

Alistair seemed to relax then, a breath of exhalation filling the air. He met Zevran's eyes, a small smile ceasing the corners of his mouth.

"Perhaps... you might be interested in a rematch...?"


	2. Strip Sparring

Strip Sparring

Zevran was impressed. Not only had Alistair aggreed to his idea of a game of strip sparring, but the grey warden was holding his own remarklbly well. Infuriating, he was also managing to keep hold of his trousers.

Missing his own left boot and shirt, Zevran circled, daggers glinting in the moonlight. The forest clearing was far enough from camp that they could clash metal without drawing attention, but the surrounding trees meant Zevran could not fully admire Alistair's exposed chest and sweat gleeming muscles if he wanted to keep from stumbling on a stray root.

Alistair had adjusted his fighting style, finally utilising his sword's greater reach to combat the swiftness of the assassin's daggers. He kept the elf far enough away from scoring any futher 'hits', at the same time keeping his blade moving to stop Zevran from catching his breath. He could see his dueling partner start to tire, knew that he had the superior stamina from hefting heavier swords and sheild in battle.

Zevran decided to change tactics, and threw one of his daggers at the warden. Alistair jumped back from where it hit the ground by his bare feet, but when he looked up, the elf was gone.

"Oh blast it..." he muttered, scanning the shadows and darkness for where Zevran might have slinked to. He found his breath quicken as he faced against an unseen foe, knowing that Zevran was close to silent when he wanted to be. Sweeping widely at nothing but air, he was struck by an idea. He arched his sword in a circle around him, to ensure that he was not about to be abushed, then straightened. He shifted his board shoulders back, flexing his back and letting his sword arm drop slightly so that the veiw was not obsured. There was a soft appreciative murmer from his left, and he spun quickly, knocking Zevran backwards with his elbow. Landing on his backside, his eyebrows raised high in surprise, Zevran broke into laughter.

"I think you lose your trousers for that...." Alistair was grinning, and stepped over to Zevran, pointing his sword down at the tanned chest.

Once he had finished chuckling, Zevran obediantly started to peel himself from his trousers, eyes fixed upon Alistair's.

"I am begining to think I am having something of a bad influence on you, my dear Alistair..."

The warrior lifted his shoulders in a small shrug, and his grin widened, "What can I say? I'm a bit of a bastard."

The elf pulled himself free of his leathers, and picked up his dagger carefully. Turning it, he offered the handle to alistair.

"Allow me to offer my unconditional surrender in that case..."

Alistair realised too late the flash of mischief in Zevran's eyes as he closed his hand round the hilt of the dagger. The elf's free hand came up and closed around the wrist, now in reach, while the other moved from the blade of the dagger to Alistair's elbow, giving a none too gentle shove, causing the templar to fall over by his side.

Alistair, grumbling something about uncomplimentery about rogues, twisted to see Zevran point a dagger at him, flicking it down to indicate his trousers.

"Off, if you would be so kind..."

Alistair had the most adorable blush, Zevran thought to himself as Alistair shed himself from his clothing. They were sitting side by side, and close enough Zevran could see the droplets of sweat upon his back, and smell the excersion in the air. Slowly, he slinked closer.

Thin delicate fingers started to trace down his chest, and Alistair drew a surprised breath. Zevran closed his mouth around those becoming lips quickly, not giving Alistair time to protest. The kiss was soft, and hot, and the extemplar felt his heart start to beat louder than it had during their fight. Shyly, he reached up to stroke his fingers through ash-blond hair, feeling Zevran tip his head back to nuzzle into his hand. He grew more confident, and brushed against Zevran's ear, and swallowed the resulting soft murmers hungrily.

He felt the assassin fill his head, the smell of him, the taste and feel and sight of him, and the oh-so delicious sounds he uttered as Alistair caressed around his neck, running down his spine and into the small of his back.

Breaking away from the kiss with a slow gasp for breath, Zevran started to kiss down Alistair's neck, a frim hand encouraging Alistair to recline to the side. As he felt hot breath roll across his underclothes, Alistair gave in, a low moan forming deep in his throat.

A dagger flashed in the night, and he found himself without underwear, and laying naked before the slender figure croached over him, looking more like a predatory cat than a Crow. One hand curling round the base, Zevran began to suck the tip of Alistair's erection, enjoying the feel of it stiffen under his attentions. Taking a little more inside his mouth, he leaned over, getting himself comfortable as his other hand snaked round to fondle the frim flesh of Alistair's buttocks, drawing lazy circles as he smoothed his mouth up and down the engorged shaft. Moaning louder now, Alistair at first didn't realise that Zevran was starting to slip a finger gently between his buttocks, as the finger gained entry he jerked.

"Wait! What're you...." he started, but then saw that Zevran was in no position to reply, the assasin concentrating on taking all of the warden into his mouth. By some miricle, the elf did seem to have heard him. The hands ceased, and Zevran, drawing his head back torturiously slowly, the tip of his tongue frimly licking the underside of his manhood as he released Alistair, flicking his tip wickedly with his tongue before looking at the extemplar with a wicked grin.

"Hmmm? You want I should stop?"

"No.. Definately no. You caught me off guard is all...."

Zevran's face was still hovering over Alistair's groin, lips tantilisingly close to his erection. Each word was heated against the exposed flesh, the assassin's breath achingly hot.

"As did you...." he whispered, more to himself, before delving down suddenly on Alistair's waiting member. Hips rising, nerves alight with sensation, Alistair felt Zevran's finger start to push inside him. It felt.. strange, and he wasn't sure he could understand the appeal until he felt the finger touch upon some secret part of him, and he felt himself utter a husky low groan. Struggling not to smile too much, with his mouth rather occupied at present, Zevran applied himself to massaging his finger further, pulling in and out just enough to cause Alistair to twitch in his grasp. A second finger joined the first, carefully stretching the tight muscles, and he felt his own desire start to haze across his head.

Dragging his lips up the lenght of Alistair, Zevran rose to his knees, guiding Alistair to raise his hips up from the ground. Alistair was panting, flushed with new and powerful sensations. As he let the templar find breath again, Zevran found his discarded trousers and fished a small bottle out. He bit the top off, flexing just a little before alistair's hungry gaze, and spread the liquid within against his own hard erection.

When he started to press into Alistair, the warden's face tightened. He had to fight the urge to consum the man in front of him, and bit down on his lip, moaning as he penetrated further into the soft, tight flesh. There was a almost inaudible sigh as Alistair opened his eyes to see Zevran, teeth nearly breaking skin on his lip. He gave an ecouraging nod, struggling to make sense of the flood of sensations. Slowly, tenderly, Zevran rocked back on his heels, letting Alistair get used to the movement before starting to build a rhythm. Each thrust seemed to steal the most delicate moans from his companion, and Zevran soon found his hips plunging forth of their own accord, wanting to see the tonned body of the warden jerk and shudder and arch in pleasure.

Fingernails against skin, watching the other revel in the act, hearing his own breath quicken in time to his friend's, the forest seemed to fade as the moment took them both. Alistair reached climax first, Zevran's hand rubbing in time with each thrust. The assassin watched with wonder as the warden arched from the ground, head rolling back in a breathy exhalation. With a snap of hips which sent a shudder through Alistair's spine, Zevran released, gasping in the cold air.

Alistair felt Zevran carefully slump beside him, curling against his chest and not minding that his body was covered in sweat and seed. The night was cool, but he felt as if his blood was on fire, his head spinning and lungs feeling like they could never be able to get enough air. Sighing contentedly, he stroked the assassin's hair from his face, smiling at the lines of ink running down his cheek bones, and the way his closed eyes fluttered at his touch. They would have to get up soon, the ground too hard to sepnd too long upon, and the night fast turning cold and unplesant, but for now he smiled at the elf snuggling into his arms.

Besides, it would not be long before they crossed blades again. After all, regular training was very important.....


	3. Cheating

Alistair cheating on fem!Pc with Zevran. Angsty porn with bottom!Alistair Pwease?

She was wonderful. Beautiful, marvelous, downright extraordinary.  
But it wasn't enough.  
Alistair felt a raw hunger grip him in the stillness of night, even after they'd lain together. He watched her sleeping form in his arms, so delicate in the candle light of their tent. Therein lay the problem, he was always so afraid that he would break her. Break her heart or break her body in the heat of passion, the terrible thought was enough to make him grit his teeth and by some miracle hold himself back. Their nights together were gentle affairs, all warm and subdued. He would utter soft words to her, stroke her body and hold her as she slept. It was nice, but it left a craving in him for something more.  
He got to his feet, wrapping a blanket over himself and cast a sad look over his darling. He desperately wished that he could be satisfied, that he could take what they had and been at peace. Careful not to rouse her, he left their tent.  
The campfire was burning low, and a familiar elf sat with his back to it, so that the light did not blind his eyes against attacks in the night. Zevran sat attentive, and flashed a quick smile as Alistair joined him. The smile faded as he took in the extemplar's face, and his brows furrowed in confusion.  
"That is not the look I would expect you to wear, having just bedded such a lovely creature as our leader..." Zevran smiled wickedly, hoping to embarass the sullen mood from the grey warden.  
Alistair said nothing, eyes down on the ground. He didn't even blush at the comment, feeling guilt ridden and sick with nerves at what he was comtemplating. Wild thoughts of what he wanted to do to the assassin made he feel tight in his chest and groin. He felt zevran shuffle a little closer, concerned to see Alistair acting so far from his usual character.  
"Hmmm... I would say that is the look of someone not entirely... sated...." his words were quiet and knowing and Alistair found himself nodding miserably.  
A hand on his, and he finally looked the assassin in the face. Zevran was smiling, but not cruelly. There was understanding in his eyes, and he gave Alistair's hand a squeeze before releasing it.  
"I have watched you, Alistair. You are a man of, shall we say, healthy appetites?" a meaningful pause, and then; "After all, I have seen you devour that slop Morrigan calls soup."  
Finally, Alistair grinned. If there was one thing he would always find pleasure in, it was insulting Morrigan.  
"I am sure she puts puddle water in, and mud..." he muttered, finding he could force words out despite the tightness in his chest.  
"Personally I will not be surprised when i find a newt's eyeball looking up at me from my spoon one of these days..."  
Alistair found he could breath normally again, the mood lightened. Zevran tipped his head to the side, watching the tension ease from the extemplar. There was a calm quiet, the fire turning to embers behind them. Alistair raised his head as the elf leaned in close to his ear and whispered.  
"I suspect however, it is another sort of appetite causing you so much pain."  
He turned then, and locked eyes with Zevran.  
"I love her." he said, the sadness in his voice causing Zevran no doubt as to whom they were speaking.  
"I do not doubt it. But you would not be out here, watching me with such a desperate gaze if that was enough. Do not believe the silly bard in that love will solve everything, people are more complicated than that."  
Alistair realized with a start that he had been looking over the assassin with reserve, taking in the way his tattoos curved over his face, the way his chest rose as he drew breath. He swallowed thickly, trying to bite down the rising need he felt. Zevran licked his lips, and said the words that finally broke Alistair's shaking resolve;  
"She does not need to know."

They had gone to Zevran's tent, naturally. Alistair felt his heart start to pound as he watched the elf remove his light armour, and lift it over his head. He loosened his own blanket, letting it drop to the ground and feeling heat rise inside himself. Then they were touching each other, hot hands on chests and in hair, hips pressed together urgently. It felt good to be able to clutch someone, to grasp them tight and not worry about the resulting bruises. Alistair reveled in the freedom he had with the elf, finally able to let himself go. He found the excrow most receptive to his kisses, moreso when he started to bite, tasting the elf and applying enough pressure with his teeth to elicit soft grunts and gasps from his partner. In return, Zevran ran fingernails down Alistair's spine, breath hot and heavy as they explored each other.  
Willing himself to slow, lest his heart burst in his chest he let Zevran guide them to the ground. He tugged at Zevran's trousers, pulling them off and then looked at the elf as he sat, exposed and erect beside him. Zevran gave a teasing smile and stretched upwards, his muscles flexed and taunt, his body lithe and strong.  
Alistair looked as if he had forgotten how to breath, as the assassin dropped his hands onto his own broad chest, holding him down as the assassin pressed their lips together. The kiss was deep, pulling the breath from both of them, and consuming all thoughts of 'her'. He reached up, holding Zevran to him, he hungrily tasted the elf, one hand clenched in soft hair. The intensity, the raw need in Alistair's actions caused Zevran to moan into his mouth.  
He felt something grasp round his member, and looked down to see Alistair rub a thumb in heavy slow circles around his base. His hips were held in place by a strong hand, and he found that he had began to shudder and twitch as Alistair started to move faster. Nearly panting for breath, he followed Alistair's lead, and started to stroke his fingers against the hard arousal of the extemplar. A low moan rumbled in his throat as he felt skilled hands work him to his threshold, stopping just short of granting release.  
He made a whine, the sound jarring against his ears but too lost in sensation to care. Zevran seemed in a similar state, oh so close to completion but want to hold onto this moment just a little longer.  
"On your knees, and we will finish this." Zevran's voice was husky, and his breath unusually loud. Alistair found his body fighting against him as he complied, only vaguely aware that Zevran had risen on his feet. He moved behind Alistair, and were was the some of something being opened and emptied into a palm.  
Suddenly a heavy hand forced him on all fours, and something hot and slick pressed against his rear. Alistair had to lock his elbows to stop them buckling as Zevran pushed deep into him.  
The elf was not gentle. The elf was all heat and pounding heart and hips, grunts and teeth on his back, fingers tight around his own manhood and clawing into his hips, driving harder with each thrust. He felt his own body start to rock, meeting Zevran's efforts with his own. As they grinded together, as fast as they could manage Alistair felt himself explode, gasping loudly.  
Zevran followed, a low grunt as heat fired up the warden's body. As the heat started to fade, Alistair felt himself sigh. His relief at beating his craving at long last was cut short as Zevran brushed a hand against his face, reminding him suddenly of the way she would stare at him after their love marking, smiling contentedly.  
He pushed the hand away, not caring that Zevran shot him a questioning glare as he did so. He started to gather his things, wondering if he would ever forgive himself for this, when Zevran sat up.  
"That is it then?" there was hurt in his voice, the elf not used to being used quite so callously.  
"Yes. That is it."  
Alistair couldn't look at the assassin, had to remind himself that he loved her. That really he'd only done this to temper his primal urges so she did not have to witness him at his most bestial, his most desperate.  
Zevran watched as Alistair dressed, scowling as he left the tent without so much as a backwards glance. He settled himself on the bedroll, clearing his mind from his irritation that Alistair would be returning to her. He instead focused of the pleasant remnants of the afterglow and enjoying the way his body relaxed after such a release.  
Besides, grey wardens appeared to be creatures of remarkable appetites. He imagined it would not be long before Alistair felt the craving seize him once more. Smiling wickedly at the thought, Zevran let himself drift into sleep.


	4. Boys will be boys

_**Boys will be boys**_  
"The men at camp have a competition to see who can come up with the best sexual innuendo. Bonus points if Sten or Alistair win."

The fire was dulling, but the prospect of bedding down for the night, only to arise and fight yet more darkspawn seemed too bleak to consider just yet. Plus, Oghren had pulled out a bottle of something almost drinkable, and that in itself was cause for minor celebration.  
The girls had gone off to wash, leaving Zevran, Oghren, Sten and Alistair sitting as close to the warm glow as they could without burning their armor.  
"Have you heard this one? 'Stroking the Nug'..." Oghren guffawed to himself, passing the bottle to across to Alistair.  
"Ugh, that just makes me think of Smooples in entirely the wrong way!" he took a drink, swallowed the fiery liquid and winced as his throat burned.  
"How about... polishing your sword?"  
Zevran crossed his arm, smirking.  
"Everyone has heard that one, try again templar!"  
Alistair blushed, and ranked his brains for a better innuendo. Traveling with such coarse companions had definitely widened his viewpoint, but he still struggled to match Oghren and Zevran in their 'competitions'.  
"Umm... unleashing the warhound?"  
Oghren snorted into a second flask he'd pulled from his backpack,  
"We'll make a sleaze of you yet, chantry boy!" Alistair felt his ears redden and pushed the bottle to the elf.  
Zevran finally accepted the bottle and his own turn at the game, stroking a slender finger against his cheek thoughtfully.  
"Dancing with no music...." and then he took a swig, tipping the bottle against his lips and licking them with a flourish.  
"Bah, pansy elf."  
"Sodding dwarf." the assassin retaliated smoothly, automatically offering the bottle past Sten, who did not drink and rarely joined in their conversations. Oghren took it greedily, both hands now happily occupied with alcohol.  
"Riding the bronto. Buckin' brunto if you're lucky!"  
Alistair noted with relief that the bottle was emptying rapidly, and hoped that perhaps the conversation would become a little more civilized by the time the women returned to camp. As Oghren let loose a truly horrendous blench he felt that hope die there and then. He swished the liquid within as he pondered, all eyes on him, but his mind couldn't quite shake the visual of Oghren and Smooples.  
"No... I'm all out."  
"No... whatever-it-is for you then!" Zevran had stolen the bottle before Alistair could object. He flashed the templar a sly smirk.  
"Licking a lamppost...."  
Alistair felt his jaw drop as Zevran laughed. Damn the elf, he thought no one else had heard that particular conversation. Oghren, oblivious to the fact the templar looked like he was just about to combust, grabbed for the bottle.  
"Wrestling the nug."  
"What is it with you and nugs, something you are not telling us?" Alistair realised half a second after speaking that he might not want to know the answer. Oghren wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shrugged.  
"What?! They're ugly and hairless and pink, it's not too hard comparison. I got a dozen 'nug' ones alone!"  
"Spare us..." drawled Zevran, stretching to claim the bottle. Only Alistair noticed that Sten was watching the elf just a little more intently now, as he drew back and tapped the glass against his thigh.  
"Hmm... Stabbing in the dark."  
As he made to give the last few drops to Oghren, a large hand closed round his and Sten plucked the bottle from a very surprised Zevran. An uneasy silence fell across the men, as Sten sniffed then drank from the bottle, draining it.  
"Conquering the ogre." he said, the faintest hint of a grin touching his face.  
When the girls got back, they found Zevran holding his sides, hardly able to breath from laughing, and Oghren was rolling about on the floor by the campfire. Alistair, a delightful shade of crimson, could not form a simple coherent word which left Sten, sitting straight and stern, to explain. .  
He simply shrugged, and said; "Boys..."


	5. lock picking

M!Cousland and Zevran

Zevran said he can pick locks.

Well, according to his skills, he lied. M!Cousland doesn't like being lied to.

Could be humorous, rough, playful etc.

captcha: new padlock

Lock picking

The cuffs rattled around his wrists as he gave them an experimental shake. Zevran looked down at them, trying to smirk, but his mouth tight with worry.

The grey warden, smiling and fiddling with a small key in his hands, leaned against the wall.

"Well, show me your lock picking then, assassin..." His tone was part jovial, part testing, and Zevran knew he'd been found out. It wasn't that he couldn't pick locks, but he just never seemed to have time to practice the skill, always managing to get distracted. The general theory he could grasp, and he could well imagine the benefits of having no door pose too much of a problem, nor any chest refuse him its bounty. Yet... no matter how hard he stared at the metal encircling his wrists, the little internal mechanisms did not spring apart. He was shirtless, Cousland having suggested that it might impede his work and Zevran warily agreeing. He tried to wriggle his wrists, hoping that the slender elven bones might allow him to slip free of the shackles, but as Cousland watched him, he realized that he was beaten.

He looked up to the grey warden, eyes flicking to the door of the room, noting it too had been locked. Cousland had hired out most of the tavern to accommodate the unlikely group, ensuring that each person had a room to themselves. He'd joked that it was to make sure they didn't awake to find Alistair had been turned into a toad, or Shale had finally 'squished' Lieanna in the night, but in truth so much traveling together was being to wear on everyone's temper, and some time alone would be welcome. Zevran, however, had found that Cousland wished a demonstration of lock picking skills and had been waiting in his room after dinner.

He tutted, and shook his head.

"They... they have a different sort of lock in Antiva... Much more refined, and less brutish than these Ferlden lumps of metal."

"Oh...?"

"Ah yes, you would need a chisel and hammer to release this particular set of manacles. But should we ever find an Antivan lock, I shall happy to display my skill to you."

Cousland, he refused to be addressed by his first name in remembrance of his family, strode over, using the key to scratch across his cheek thoughtfully.

"And the lock upon that interesting box in Haven I wanted to look inside?"

"Gummed up with mud, as I said at the time... Impossible to pick. Still Oghren managed to open it with his waraxe, so your curiosity was sated."

The grey warden sighed, and crossed his arms, now standing close to Zevran, who suddenly felt that he would very much like to be able to get out of the chains binding his hands together. Something in the nobleman's smile, some joke that the elf was not privy too, unnerved him.

"I think that perhaps you have not been completely honest with me Zevran. I think that perhaps you do not have the talent for lock picking that you claimed."

"I assure you, I am most dexterous and skilled with my hands..."

Cousland raised an eyebrow, that same smile playing on his lips. Zevran took half a step backwards, but found Cousland closing in, hands pressing either side of him against the wall, blocking his escape.

"I dislike being lied to... " The smile was still there, but his eyes were fierce and cold. Zevran recalled the only time he'd seen grey wardens raise voices and fist in argument. It had been a couple of weeks ago, at camp out in the middle of nowhere. Cousland was trying to settle Alistair down, after Morrigan had riled him up -again- about his sulking after Duncan's death. He'd suggested that brooding would do noone any favors, and that they should concentrate on the more pressing matters of trying to get the damnable dwarfs to elect a king and fulfill their contract to the grey wardens. Face red with anger, Alistair had accused Cousland of not being able to understand the pain caused by Loghain's treachery at Ostegar. Before anyone could react, Cousland had punched him.

The camp had fallen silent, and through gritted teeth Cousland had spoken of his family's massacre. He spared no details, his eyes had not left Alistair through the telling. Every time he said Howe's name, it was with spite and venom. Then he had turned, gave a clipped apology for striking Alistair, who sat dumbfounded, and went to his tent for the night.

Something in the man before him now, so close he could see the small rips in the undershirt, where armor had caught in battle, and the way his dark red hair swept over his ears and across his brow, mirrored the look he'd seen that night in the camp. Something raw, and unresolved, and dangerous. Then Zevran realized, Cousland feared further betrayal, and his own slight fabrication of his skills at lock picking had given the grey warden cause to doubt the assassin. This was not a test of his lock picking, this was a test to see if he could trust the elf.

Zevran dipped his eyes, remembering the fury in Cousland's eyes as his fist cracked against Alistair's cheek.  
"Perhaps I over boasted my abilities. You will remember though, you had me at swordpoint at the time of my claim, and I was a little anxious not to be dead at the end of the conversation..."  
"So you cannot lock pick?"  
Zevran took a deep breath, aware of how close Cousland was. He forced himself to meet the noble's eyes. "No."  
The admission seemed to soften Cousland's eyes, and he moved the key to just in front of Zevran's face, twisting it slightly, playfully.  
"Then for the moment I think you shall keep the handcuffs. They suit you. Call them a gift..." With that he tossed the tiny key over his shoulder, grinning as it clattered out of sight against the tavern floor.  
"How nice....." Zevran said dryly, raising an eyebrow. Cousland had so far refused even his most sultry of advances, but the way the noble was staring at him, the fact he had the elf so close, manacled... Zevran forced a slight smile, moving his hands and letting the metal clink together just a little for emphasis, encouraging.  
Cousland wrapped a hand over the metal chain connecting the cuffs, and pulled the elf forwards, pressing his lips down upon Zevran's with a smooth motion. Eyebrows raised high in surprise in his forwardness, but not entirely resistant to the idea of bedding with the nobleman, Zevran let a hot tongue push inside his mouth. A hand cupped round the back of his head, holding him as the kiss deepened, Cousland greedily tasting and teasing with his tongue. There was a thrill as Zevran tried to shift, to draw his arms back from where they were pulled out uncomfortably, and Cousland tightened his grip on the elf's head, giving his lip a nip as warning. Walking backwards, dragging the chain with him, forcing Zevran to follow, Cousland led them to the bed.  
Zevran allowed himself to be tugged onto the bed, a hand upon his hip guiding him down, the other raising his wrists above his head as Cousland moved on top on him. He was about to protest being dragged about like a mabari on a leash when he caught the look in Cousland's eyes. Hunger.  
Fingers trailed down his arms, curling round his ribs and over tanned skin. He felt hot breath on his chest, and teeth and lips roaming up his neck and down his torso. He writhed under the firm grip, gasping when the teeth bit down into his skin.  
He felt Cousland stop then, and as he struggled to catch his rapidly fragmenting breath, managed to utter "S'good. Don't stop."  
With a feral grin Cousland took another bite, slightly softer, catching the skin of a nipple between his teeth and flicked it with his tongue. Zevran moaned, low and breathless, as Cousland proceeded to lay a series of bites and kissed across his chest. He closed his eyes as he felt fingers wrap and tangle in his hair, and push him to the side while Cousland brushed teeth against the sharp lines of his cheek, and against the tip of his long pointed ear.  
He felt Cousland first unfasten his own trousers, then the elf's, pulling himself free of them before discarding them onto the floor. He drew back, pulling Zevran's tight leathers off, having to stop to remove his boots before he was able to fully appreciate the lithe creature upon the bed. He ran fingernails down the dark tattoo'd lines, and nibbled the inside of Zevran's thigh. Hips jolted, and Zevran felt himself harden as Cousland leaned in, his weight on his knees either side of the elf. He had to heave an arm under Zevran's should to turn him onto his front, and noted the way the elf arched, showing the ridges of his spine down his sleek back. He gathered himself behind, his knees placed on the inside of Zevran's, forcing the elf to widen his legs. Zevran could feel something wet and slippery being applied to his rear, and tensed in anticipation. It was strange, not being in control, and at the same time, exciting. He savored being at the mercy of another, of being surprised when Cousland revealed more experience than he had perviously guessed.  
As he felt heat press inside him, he had to rely on Cousland to hold him up, his legs suddenly turning boneless. He felt Cousland's hips reach his body, and the full length of him buried to the hilt inside him. Hips held almost painfully apart, when Cousland started to rock, carefully at first, Zevran felt as though his spine was set aflame, as he was stretched and filled, sensations building as he was rubbed inside again and again with each push.  
With a barely audible grunt Cousland started to thrust harder, deeper, and Zevran felt his knees lifting as he tried to push his hips backwards, urging the man onwards. His hands held together under him, the metal starting to cut into the flesh of his wrists, the shuddering motion of each impact forcing him to gasp and cry out, Zevran was lost to the act as Cousland drove into him. With a exhalation, he released, twitching as Cousland continued, seeking his own pleasure. It took another three final pounds into the elf before he felt the heat of Cousland's seed spurting inside him, and the man leaned down to plant a slow, heavy kiss against his back before separating.  
Cousland rose to get up, slow but satisfied. Zevran twisted to look at him as he collected his trousers from the floor, starting to pull them on.  
"My dear grey warden, I would have beckoned you to my tent much sooner had I known what a -force- you were in the bedroom."  
"I will not lay with liars."  
"Then nevermore will a falsehood cross my lips." Zevran made an approximation of crossing his heart, with his hands still bound in the cuffs.  
Cousland smiled, nodding to himself.  
"That is good."  
He got up, tied the lace around his trousers and walked to the door, unlocking it. Zevran gave a quiet cough.  
"Lest you have forgotten... what do you intent to do about these?" Zevran struggled upright, and rattled the shackles pointedly.  
"Perhaps you should practice your lock picking?" Cousland suggested, and with a sly smirk, shut the door behind him.


	6. Spurn

kmeme8

Nathaniel/Anders.

Both of them are hopelessly in love with their Commander, but she's married and uninterested in either of them. So they take out their lust on each other.

Anders watched with interest as Nathaniel dipped in a bow as the commander handed over what looked like a shiny plant pot. Apparently he was rather happy with it, and he swept the commanders' hand up to his lips, offering a reverent kiss upon her knuckles.  
The resounding slap echoed painfully across the main hall.  
"Do not touch me! I gave you a chance, let you become a grey warden in an effort to redeem yourself, but so help me if you ever think about doing that again, I will cut you down where you stand...." Her eyes blazed, and Anders had to admit that even when furious, she was stunning. She turned sharply and left the hall, Nathaniel rubbing his face in a stunned silence.  
"Ahh, you too have discovered that our fair commander is a bit touchy about touching." Anders sauntered up alongside, offering a smile of camaraderie. He turned his face and tapped his jaw on the left side, "She caught me a vicious right hook when I tried to brush some hair from her face."  
"What the...?! What just happened?"  
Nathaniel looked over to the doorway, and then back at Anders, who was smiling sadly.  
"I think... that perhaps we should have a chat somewhere a bit more private. My quarters?" The mage gestured to his bedroom, and led the Howe inside, shutting the door behind them.  
"Its her damnable husband. Lord high and mighty, king Alistair, apparently stole her heart, and then run it through the mill. Can't quite make out the full story, but the rumor has it that he rejected her publicly at a landsmeet, then slept with a witch, then married her anyway, then sent her off to fix the Grey Wardens without him, while he holds court back in Denerim. She seems a tad upset about the whole thing. I wouldn't speak about it too loudly or openly though, she has a berserker streak that I for one do not want to be at the receiving end of." Anders settled himself on the bed, swinging his legs up under him. Nathaniel, after quickly scanning the room, pulled up a chair and seated himself. He noted that the room was sparse, save for a collection of spell books, some half chewed cat toys and several scorchmarks on the walls and ceiling. A mage's bedroom.  
"And i suppose trying to comfort her...?"  
"Likely to result in her sword stuck in your skull, I would think."  
"Hmm... Pity." Nathaniel rested his head on the knuckles of his hand. He'd been toying with the idea of pursuing the firey Cousland, ever since she'd allowed him to live. He found her strength intoxicating, and her cold way of answering everything in blunt statements an intriguing challenge. He fancied that she would open to him, like a flower, revealing her inner softness. There was bad blood between them, deaths of family on both sides, and he figured that she would come to terms with his presence in her own time. He tried not to mind that she chose the hairy, equally rage-filled dwarf, and the creepy spirt haunted corpse over himself when she ventured out beyond the keep, reassuring himself that these things could not be hurried, no matter how much he longer for it. He'd been waiting for her to give him a signal that she was ready to accept him. He thought that the gift of the Howe crested vase was a sign that she was interested, but apparently he was very much mistaken. He gave a short grunt of disappointment.  
Anders, having suffered similarly, had a inclining of what might be going through Nathaniel's head. He'd had a notion that a light hearted attitude might bring a smile to those lovely lips, but it seemed that his mannerisms and jokes only reminded her of king Alistair. More often than not, when she left on her various quests and adventures, she left Anders behind, twiddling his thumbs and trying not to provoke Ohgren too much.  
Frustrated, he sighed. The mage was bored, and though life in Virgil's Keep was not without its benefits, not having to hide and watch over his shoulder for templars was an uneasy luxury. He almost missed the thrill of escaping under the noses of those armor plated idiots, at least it gave him something to do.  
When he raised his eyes from his thoughts, he found Nathaniel staring intently at him. His cheek was reddened in the imprint of her hand, and he suddenly had a desire to touch the skin, to trace where her hand had struck.  
Nathaniel let the mage lift an unsure finger to his face, and was surprised at how gently Anders's fingertip brushed against the mark. Anders had a intense look in his eyes, and Nathaniel recognized it, lust.  
Nathaniel wanted to feel wanted, to have someone need him. He had not lain with a man before, but due to the commander's actions, for the moment he was sworn off women and their unpredictable moods. Men, at least, understood lust, and the simple primal urge. He stood from the chair, and moved in towards Anders, who did not back away as their lips pressed together. Neither sure of the other's intentions, but each desiring a closeness that only skin on skin could sate.  
Nathaniel, checking that Anders was not about to unleash a bolt of lightening at him, crawled onto the bed, his knees against the mage's hips, his hands on the robes, smoothing over the fabric as he felt Anders's chest heave beneath him.  
"Let us forget then, about the commander. You will not find me so quick to spurn your advances...." Nathaniel's voice was deep, his eyes intense. Anders grinned, his own eyes glinting.  
Fingers, featherlight with just a slight spark of magic, brushed strands of dark hair from the Howe's face, tucking it behind his ear. Nathaniel gave a grin as he caught Anders' hand in his own, pulling it down and laying a kiss on the back of it. He did not let go there however, and eyes locked down on the mage under him, nibbled the skin of the fingers, holding the digits in his teeth as his tongue tasted Anders.  
Anders, under the weight of the nobleman, dark eyes half closed as he drew fingers into his mouth, reached up with his other hand and let his fingers follow the line of Nathaniel's shirt, barely brushing the skin underneath. When he reached the buttons down the front, he gave Nathaniel a meaningful glance. Nathaniel's soft groan was all the permission the mage needed, and he started to snap each button from its holdings. He had to withdraw his other hand from Nathaniel's mouth, where he was tantalizingly sucking upon the fingers, in order to undo the last couple of fastenings. Nathaniel's muscular chest was a dark tone than Anders' own pale hand, and running a hand down the line of the Howe's throat down to naval he noted that Nathaniel's breath was shallow and rapid. He could see the nobleman's arousal through leather trousers, matching his own increasing need. Nathaniel made a low growl, or perhaps just a heavy breath, but Anders was pulled from the wall, and his robes lifted over his head. The hands on him were hot, and firm. Nathaniel threw his robes over his shoulder and looked at him, both of their chests raising quickly, breaths desperate and raw. Anders arched into the embrace, teeth finding the flesh of the shoulder, Nathaniel's breathy pants encouraging, inflaming.  
The pace was broken as they took off their trousers and small clothes, Anders unable to move for the Howe straddling him, and Nathaniel's leathers too tight to come off easily. Nathaniel, with a reluctant growl, moved back off the bed so that he could kick off his trousers, and Anders used the freedom to quickly push himself from the wall, twisting to belly down on the bed, knees lifting his rear into the air. He noted with a rising anticipation Howe's manhood, like Nathaniel strong and proud. Catching himself staring, he stretched and fumbled in a bedside drawer, before handing a small vial to Nathaniel, after first slicking his own fingers.  
Nathaniel was not so innocent in the ways of the world to mistake Anders' gesture, but having never done the act he hesitated, his usual bravo deserting him. He was thankful however, that at least one of them knew what they were doing the mage turned, just enough so that he could see the Howe, and smiled reassuringly.  
"Ahh... I will beg your patience just a moment. If you could use the oil upon yourself, it will make this much more enjoyable... For both of us."  
Fascinated, Nathaniel watched as Anders reached between his legs and pressed a glistening finger into himself. He watched, avidly as Anders twisted and writhed, making small noises as he stretched himself. As his hips were raised, he could see Anders' arousal, shifting in time with the motion of the mage's skilled hands. Nathaniel found his hand touch upon his own swelling erection, and dutifully applied the oil down his length.  
"I am ready." Anders' voice was little more than a breathless whisper, as he gave the Howe a nod.  
An eager hand gripped his hip, as Nathaniel pressed against Anders' body, the other hand on the bed supporting them as Nathaniel carefully started to guide himself into Anders. The mage moaned, between shuddering breaths as he felt the heat and hardness fill him. Nathaniel slid his entire length inside, and had to pause, had to somehow remember how to breathe. The tightness, and the way the mage's body twitched and pulsed round him, and the knowledge that Anders was struggling to draw breath as well fired through his mind and body, and with a grunt, he started to move.  
He was holding back, Anders could tell. He heard hot breath through gritted teeth, and a low growl as the Howe fought to keep control. Each moment was slow, measured, and though each time Nathaniel pressed deep into him, it set his nerves alight, it was not enough. Not enough to temper the need and desire, not enough to satisfy him now his craving had been stroked to such power.  
".... Harder." he hissed, arching back into the trust, willing himself to tighten, to drive Nathaniel into the fervor he needed.  
Nathaniel let out a long low breath, letting go his inhibitions, letting loose his lust.  
Pounding into Anders, the mage let out a cry, his hands gripping the bedsheets. Gasping, dragging air into his lungs, Nathaniel forced his hips forwards, the heat of passion enveloping him, the tightness around his length overwhelming. He felt Anders jerk as he reached climax, ripples of contractions coursing through his body. Nathaniel released then, feeling his seed spurt inside Anders, muscles spasming as the mage slumped down upon the bed, twisting to his side to give Nathaniel space.  
He let his arm relax, and curled around Anders, pulling the mage into a tight embrace into his chest. They lay, spent and satisfied, both too hot to require blankets. Anders was making murmurs, in between soft sighs, Nathaniel, reeling for the experience was silent. His arms around the mage were fixed though, he'd not let go so easily.  
Anders smiled to himself, thinking that next time the warden commander went gallivanting off without him to go do battle with whatever darkspawn monstrosity had reared up from the deep, he was not going to be so very bored. 


	7. Blood Rose

f!Amell slips into Alistair's tent and has her way with him. Preferably dubcon. Blood magic (or blood play) is a plus.

Night had settled, and even the darkspawn seemed too tired to disrupt the silence. Alistair felt at ease enough to remove most of his armor, and was busy organizing his bedroll to ensure he didn't spent another night sleeping upon a ill placed stone when he heard the tent flap behind him shift. He twisted, and saw Amell standing, smiling.  
"Um.. can I help you Amell? You seem to have lost your tent. Tricky things tents, I swear the ropes move in the night.. Maker knows I'm forever tripping up over them."  
She tipped her head, and he felt his head grow heavy. There seemed to be red blotches on her robes, and he caught the sharp tang of... blood. She was holding a rose, his rose, so tight that her knuckles were blanched. Her smile didn't waver, and there was something sinister behind it. Something Alistair's Templar instincts recognized, something he didn't trust.  
He was too slow to block the magic as it crackled from her hands, too slow to neutralize it. He watched red mist settle on his skin in strange runes and glyphs, before disappearing into his flesh. He felt his body jerk as a heat surged through him. Amell's hand, by now dripping with blood, made a complex gesture and he felt himself move without control. he knelt by her, as she took a step towards him, watching him carefully.  
"Hmm... very nice." She wasn't talking to him, he realized, but more to herself as she admired the hold she had on him.  
He cursed himself for trusting her. He had pretended not to see when in battle darkspawn had randomly started to attack each other, or died suddenly at her feet, bleeding from their eyes and mouths. He'd told himself that the sweet little mage from the tower could not be a malficar. That she'd have more sense than to dabble in blood magic. Yet, as she stood, predatory and dangerous, he had no doubt he was under her spell.  
His mouth didn't want to form words, his entire body rigid, but somehow he forced himself to utter a single breathless; "No!"  
She stopped, surprised.  
"You are fighting against me? I am impressed, truly."  
She bent down, her face next to his. She pressed her lips to his, swallowing any further pleas he might have had. He tried to close his eyes, but she snapped her fingers and they stayed open, forcing him to watch as she took off her robes. He felt tired, exhausted fighting against her power, but knew that if he gave in, she would have complete control.  
She traced a finger across his cheek, he wanted to flinch at her touch, wanted to somehow break free. His body betrayed him, her smell and magic filling him, intoxicating his senses and muddling his mind. He felt himself grow stiff at her attentions, hating himself for doing so. He knew this was wrong, but the pull of her magic, her soft caress, the way her lips parted slightly as she breathed, they all drove him to a dark desire he hadn't thought he was capable of. Torn between want and disgust, lust and fear, Alistair made a small strangled noise. She chuckled, and leaned in to whisper into his ear.  
She was wonderfully warm, and as she ran fingers through his hair she urged him to let go.  
"Give yourself to me... I promise you won't regret it."  
She spoke with her teeth bared, willing him to submit. He clung the shred of substance he had left, and did not move when she beckoned him forward.  
"Amell... please." he drew a shuddering breath, and looked at the mage, begging her to stop.  
Something in her eyes changed, briefly. She wavered, as if debating her actions. She looked down to the rose, opening her hand to see where the thorns had cut into her palm.  
"Please what? Please stop being a blood mage? Ignorant templar."  
Alistair couldn't find words, but saw the scorn in her face as she clenched the stem of rose, drawing fresh rivulets of blood from her palms. She smiled as she leaned back to his ear, and then her voice was resonating inside him. He tried to shake free of the strange intangible threads winding inside his body and head, but the fresh wave of power flooded through his mind.  
_She wants you. You can help her. You want her. She is lovely. You cannot fight her forever. You can save her. You love her. Go to her.  
_Lastly, one thought that seemed to actually be his own, _Save your energy to resist her later.  
_He moved forwards, feeling less like a puppet, and embraced the waiting mage. She gave a soft sigh as his arms wrapped round her, pulling her into his chest.  
"There... This is better, isn't it?"  
He didn't want to admit how good it felt to have her skin against his, how he wanted to breath in the scent of her hair, but a breathy moan escaped him. Smiling, she arched, and her exposed flesh, crossed with thin scars from battles and magic, seemed to glow. She twisted, rubbing against him, sitting in his lap, guiding his hand downwards.  
He felt a line of fire run through his arm as he resisted, hesitant. He hissed as he felt the magic force compliance, and narrowed his eyes at the mage. She would not meet his eyes, and was not smiling any more. His fingers trembled under the strain of their competing influences, but when his nerves started to burn, he gasped and lost what little control he had. Shocked, he felt his hand smoothly glide under Amell's small clothes, brushing against the soft secret flesh.  
"Like it or not, I am going to have my very wicked way with you, Ser Templar..." she was almost hissing the words, bending magic and blood to her will. Alistair felt his head swim, she was forcing thoughts onto him now, instructions;  
_Flick a finger against __**here**__. Reach inside and rub __**there**__.....  
_The heat around his hand, the small soft noises she was making as he delved deep with twitching fingers, the way he seemed to be coaxing a delicious warmth from her very center, these unknown nuances of the female body overwhelmed Alistair, and he felt himself throb painfully, shamefully. Magic and lust and not knowing where one ended and the other began, nor which were true or just her whim, he would curse the mage if his voice could let him.  
He felt his hand grow cold, and found he could flex his fingers as he wanted. To regain something so small strengthened him, and he tried to get up, to push himself from the mage and her bloodied control. Except when he shifted his body forwards, she had moved, and he realized why he'd been granted his hand back.  
Amell, the little mage who flustered over Zevran's flirtations, and who collected painting for the stern Qunari, had reclined backwards, and had spread her legs apart. With one rust-colored finger curling meaningfully, she drew upon the blood within him, and he started forwards. It would be easier to resist, he thought, if he did not want the woman. If it were Morrigan, he might be able to break the haze and summon his templar powers to clear the air of the offending magics, but Amell... he had had though her often, upon his bedroll. Amell, delicate and beautiful like the rose.  
Now he saw her, Amell, hiding thorns under her mage robes, just like a rose. Yet he wanted her, whether under her blood magic influence, or obeying his primal desires, he could not deny that he wanted her.  
He lost his will to fight the second he entered her, her breathy pants for more urging him on as he thrust up against her, inside her. So soft and tight against his manhood, he felt her control slipping as he moved within her, stroking her passion. He grabbed her, hands on the small of her back, pulling her in to him, his hips finding a rhythm, beating out his urge as she writhed in his embrace. She keened, moaning, and he found that he could touch her as he wished now, and set about driving the last of her hold on him out as she closed her eyes in pleasure. Slick, hot and urgent, he pressed deep into the mage, and felt her shudder around him as she climaxed. He gritted his teeth and continued to move forward and back, willing her to release him entirely, that he might claim back his will without fearing blood mage contamination. She arched, and with a sickening realization, he felt himself spurt, and then still, his energies spent.  
He gripped her wrist, and tried to drain the mana from her, as he felt his entire body grow heavy, a last attempt to keep her from manipulating him again. Too late he recalled that blood mages had not need for mana, not when they drew their power from blood, but the effort cost him what little strength he had left. He slumped to the bedroll, defeated and spent.  
She knelt over him, smiling sadly. She moved a hand, fingers matching the red rose petals, over the air in front of his face.  
"Sleep, my templar. Sleep and forget."  
And he had no energy left to resist her, and he felt his memories drain away, as his eyes slowly closed.


	8. Unrequited

the prompt:  
Alistair tied up, spanked, and thoroughly sexed by Zevran. :D Please?

_contains non-con, bondage, spanking, M/M and sex scenes._

He had stubbornly ignored all Zevran's advances, and the assassin was not used to being refused. Pure, innocent and worse, raised by a Chantry, these things made Alistair almost irresistible, and Zevran had run out of tricks to try and tempt the ex templar. Alistair, for his part, seemed oblivious he was being pursued. That, or he was exceptionally cruel.  
The other grey warden seemed rather preoccupied with the silly little bard, and Morrigan, well, he'd thought that there were darkspawn who would be more agreeable to spending the night in his tent than the irate swamp witch. Sten had bluntly stated he would cleave Zevran in two should he come any closer than his sword could reach, and Ohgren had toasted that statement with vigorous agreement. Wynn had mentioned that if he mentioned her bosom again, she'd use her magic to pound him into the ground, and then, *maybe* she would put him back together again. Also, his sneaking off to go and woo some lucky lady or gent while they were in the cities was apparently suspicious actions for an ex crow and he had subsequently been banned from leaving whatever hovel they were residing within. So Zevran was feeling markedly frustrated. Frustrated and infatuated with the board shouldered, and constantly blushing ex templar.  
It was starting to affect him beyond his nightly ruminating. Enemies were starting to catch him as he darted forward with daggers, and he found his eye wandering the battlefield and losing focus, especially if he glimpsed Alistair launching himself behind his shield and blade with such force it made him shiver. He had an inkling that this was the reason the grey warden leader had called him aside one night, holding the bridge of his nose in a tired pinch.  
"No I don't want a massage, before you even think about suggesting it."  
"Would that you had not refused my last seven offers, I would be surprised. Very well, your loss. What else then, might I be able to do for you, my dear grey warden?"  
"Whatever it is that is bothering you, you'd best sort it out. We head to Denerim soon, to rally the landsmeet, and I can't afford to have you distracted."  
"Distracted... Yes, perhaps I have been. What if it something not so easily ... sorted?"  
He signed, and gave Zevran a weary look. "There is a blight, if you haven't noticed. It is a bit of a big deal. If it will help you fight, you have my permission to snort the sodding ashes. Just... just deal it, in whatever manner works best for you."  
Zevran's eyes flashed; "'It' happens to be a certain someone..."  
The grey warden held up his hand, exasperated. Zevran was not surprised that his fellow warden had not noticed Alistair's 'admirer', he had been too busy trying to force a country intent on self destruction into some kind of temporary truce while they dealt with the hoards of darkspawn and their dragonic commander.  
"Assassinate it, bed it, hell, you can even marry it if it means I can count on your without doubt when we have to face down the archdemon. Just deal with it. That is an order."  
He sighed, and looked across the camp to where Ohgren was swaying dangerously. He gave Zevran a short nod.  
"Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go and sort out that drunkard's love life...."  
As the grey warden leader walked off, Zevran started to grin. He was not about to refuse an order after all...

Alistair watched Zevran approach, and moved up one of the logs they'd placed by the fire to give him room. Gracefully he sat, just a little too close, but then, the elf seemed to have a rather skewed sense of personal boundaries.  
"I was talking with our fearless leader, and he has given me a most interesting order. I will need your assistance however, I suspect it would be a pointless endeavour without your.. assets."  
He'd seen the look on his fellow warden face, serious and frank, and though he might raise a query to the specifics, he had no doubt that their leader would give them orders that were not necessary.  
"Of course Zevran. What do you need?"  
Zevran smiled brightly, and gestured to his tent.  
"I need a couple of particular supplies, but as long as you will grant me your company, I think we shall be just fine." Zevran patted Alistair on the knee, and with a smug smile, rose to his feet.  
Lieanna would have been able to spot the slight skip in Zevran's step as he headed into his tent to pack, and she would have probably been able to give Alistair fair warning of what he was about to get himself into. As the elf and the ex templar left the campsite however, she was trying (without very much luck) to get Ohgren to stop threatening to barbecue Smooples, all the while shouting about Branka being a 'worthless nug muncher'.

Groggily, and with a great deal of effort, Alistair opened his eyes. He half expected to see Wynn hovering over him, but it was dark, and there was not the usual chatter of people arguing who had slain which particular enemy. There was not even a injury kit being forced into his hands.  
Which he appeared to be unable to move. He shifted his weight carefully, and found them to be firmly tied behind him. He was on a blanket cast across the ground, and his chest armor was missing. So was his heavy bracers and greeves, and, more worrying, his sword and shield were nowhere to be seen. His head ached, and as he tried to see if there was anyone nearby who might help, he saw Zevran. The elf did not seem to be bound as he was, but he had a strange look in his eye.  
Zevran walked over, and reached a hand out to Alistair, stroking his cheek softly.  
"I apologise for the bump on the head. I would have simply slipped something more subtle into your drink, but you were most insistent on 'not drinking on duty'..."  
Alistair tried to twist away from the fingers dancing on his face, but with his hands behind his back his moments were limited.  
"Zevran! What the hell are you playing at?"  
Zevran gave a shrug, "Following orders." he smiled and half closed his eyes, leaning in and breathing deeply by Alistair's ear. Alistair tensed as he felt Zevran start to brush his nose against the line of his throat, a slow soft sigh coming from the elf.  
"Uh... could you stop that? Zev?"  
"Not even if I wanted to." Zevran whispered, and Alistair felt the elf's tongue flick out and press against his neck, causing a chill in the night air. He jerked, and Zevran gave a small tut of annoyance.  
Alistair felt the assassin's weight shift over him, forcing him face down and pinning him. He gave a small surprised yelp as Zevran stretched over his body, knees either side of his hips, hands starting to caress the skin around his neck and back. Then, as well as hands and fingers on his back, he felt lips. Heated kisses pressed against his flesh, breathy sighs and hot pants filled his ears. Alistair continued to protest, alternately asking and demanding Zevran stop, but the elf was relentless, his hands exploring his exposed body, until Alistair started to find it hard to form words. He felt his cheeks burning, and his manhood started to felt uncomfortably sensitive as Zevran started to bite, gently at first, teeth barely touching, then harder as Zevran rocked on top of him.  
His hands behind him could feel Zevran's erection, and he was rapidly becoming aware of the assassin's intentions. With a growl he swung himself sideways, and started to shout, hoping that they had not gone so far from the camp that noone would be able to hear.  
"Help! The sleazy elf's gone mad!"  
Zevran recovered his balance quickly, and spun to face the extemplar. There was a glint of a dagger, and Zevran's dark eyes glaring at him. The point of the dagger pressed at his chest, and Alistair could feel the metal tip through the cloth of his undershirt.  
With a humourless thin smile, Zevran pushed a finger against Alistair's lips.  
"Hush. You would be dead by the time they reached you." Alistair could feel Zevran's breath on his as the elf brought himself closer, trailing the dagger down the line of his solar plexus to his navel. The slender finger moved from his lips to under his chin, lifting his head and forcing him to strain his neck. Alistair managed the smallest of shakes of his head as Zevran let the dagger slip further downwards.  
"Still... 'sleazy elf'? Such an insult will not go unpunished."  
The dagger flicked downwards, and Alistair braced himself for the sting of the metal into his flesh. When the anticipated cut failed to occur, he glanced down to see that Zevran was carefully slicing through the laces of his trousers. The proximity of the dagger stilled his instinct to squirm, and he was finding it hard to breathe.  
A hard fast hand against where his wrists were bound pushed him face first, and he felt his trousers being yanked from him, and bunched around his knees. He whimpered quietly as fingertips drew up and over the exposed flesh of his rear, then he saw the dagger flash in the dim light.  
The flat of the blade smacked against his behind, and he jerked his hips forward, gasping. The hands on his wrists held firm, and as he craned his neck to the side, he saw Zevran licked his lips, and readying the dagger for another blow.  
He was no less prepared for the shock of the cold metal the second time, the chill of the blade a contrast to the pain of the red welts. Then, a hand, carefully cast over the tender skin, before slamming down with a slap. Alistair felt his eyes start to sting as salt water gathered, and he was painfully aware how much he was whimpering into the folds of the blanket, hoping at least it would muffle his whines. One last smack, placed upon already inflamed skin, and he felt the elf shift to the side.  
Over, let it be over, he begged silently.  
Zevran admired his handywork, the way Alistair quivered under each blow had excited him further, and soon he found he was breathing through his teeth. He felt his member pulse, and he knew he needed to take the ex templar now. Oil, laid out in preparation, was slathered over his cock as he pushed his own breeches down. He nimbly slipped out of them as he pulled on the rope around Alistair's wrists.  
Alistair was pulled to his knees, swaying slightly and breathing heavily, his rear ablaze. As he felt Zevran push against him, he made one last definite jerk to get away, but a hand grabbed him by the neck and held him, squeezing until his head spun and he stopped wriggling.  
Zevran's first thrust was deep and hard, he wanted Alistair tight and pure when he took him, wanted that intensity. Alistair shuddered as he felt heat push inside him, filling him with fire and pain. Zevran's hips reached Alistair's rear, and he felt the heat of the assassin against his tender skin. Despite the cool air, he was sweating, and he struggled weakly as Zevran started to drive into him. The ex templar was indeed wonderfully tight, his inner reaches soft and yielding and oh-so very hot. Alistair was panting as fingernails dug into his neck, and his body was racked with sensation. Zevran grunted loudly, saying things in Antivan and Ferelden common which seemed to revolve around how good he was. The praise did not ease his deepening sense of helplessness as Zevran reached round and took the grey warden's member in his hand. it stiffened as he stroked the skin up and down, speeding up as Zevran's movements grew more frantic. The elf was pressing his face into Alistair's back, and he could feel alternating kisses and bites as hips slammed forward in a final blow into him. He felt Zevran's seed spurt inside him, and as the elf withdrew he felt it start to dribble down his thigh.  
Zevran was smiling, smug and satisfied, and then saw that Alistair was still in need of release. He knelt down, and guided Alistair down. Alistair utter a quiet sob as he felt Zevran's mouth close over his erection, and though he hated himself for it, it felt good. Slick lips, running up and down his length, applying more pressure until he could hear Alistair groaning. Golden eyes glanced up and with a look of appreciation, noted the way Alistair's head fell back in a long low moan as his mouth filled with salt and musk.  
Wiping the back of his mouth, Zevran straightened up and brushed Alistair's cheek with the back of his hand fondly.  
"Hmmm... That was worth the wait. If only you weren't quite so reluctant, the fun we could have..."  
Alistair knew he was shaking, and flinched from Zevran's touch.  
"I will never let you touch me." he said, his voice was low, hoarse from panting and gasping.  
Zevran raised an eyebrow, and shrugged. "Oh? Are you so sure?.... "  
"Positive!"  
Zevran was pulling his trousers back on, one leg at a time, still smiling.  
"I think you will change your mind. I also think that you will keep our little secret."  
"And what makes you think I won't tell everyone what you did!?" Alistair almost spat, raising himself up on his knees. His hands were still bound, but angry flooded him, and he needed to confront the elf.  
"Did you not see our grey warden leader? He is close to breaking point, hardly holding the group together. Hardly holding himself together.... and all of Ferelden counting on him. You can see that without him, the blight will consume the land. You have a choice, whether to tell him and risk the consequences, or allow me my indulgences. But I know you will make the right decision, you are a creature of duty, after all."  
Slow realisation; blackmail, and that the assassin was right. He could not risk all of Thedas for his own sake, he was simply not that selfish. It did not mean he had to like it however. Alistair seethed as he watched Zevran stand.  
"I will see you tomorrow, dear one. In my tent."  
Bending, Zevran touched his lips against Alistair's mouth, and then softly licked away the tears falling down the grey warden's face. 


	9. Strange sweaty sex games

prompt: _f/Aeducan and Zevran have to carry an injured Alistair to safety, but after realizing all that plate armor makes him too heavy, they remove it and leave it behind.  
Whatever happens after Al wakes up in his skivvies and the two hovering over him...Use your imagination! _

Aeducan took a shaky breath as the hurlock slid off her blades. Everything was still, Morrigan clutching her staff, trying not to look like she was leaning on it, and Zevran making a show of brushing off his leathers, even though they were covered in scratches and mud and blood.  
"Alistair? Get up you lazy sod... Fight's over."  
When the man inside the heavy armor didn't so much as stir, Zevran was already on the ground checking for a pulse. Morrigan winced as she drew upon her energies to cast healing at him, but the soft glow made him seem pale.  
Zevran tipped his head to the side, and pointed at a fierce gash on Alistair's arm.  
"Smells of poison..." he said quietly, wrinkling his nose, "but his pulse is strong and breathing regular."  
"Pity." muttered Morrigan, but Aeducan ignored her.  
The dwarf sat back on her hunches, looking at Alistair unhappily. The human was dear to her, as a friend, as a brother in arms. Seeing him laying there, without his usual good natured smile, struck a chord of fear deep within her.  
"Till the drug wears off, he'll be out for the count. But he will be fine, this I swear." Zevran had noted, with no small amount of jealousy, how Aeducan's face had grown tight and wane at the sight of the fallen warrior. He hoped the reassurance would at least ease those lines of worry from her dark eyes.  
"Until the next band of darkspawn come and finish you all off..."  
"Not helpful Morrigan." Aeducan's voice was tight, and smaller than she would have liked. She pressed her fingers into the bridge of her nose and gave a low sigh.  
"Right. Here is what we'll do. Morrigan, you go back to camp. It'd be best if you could be something fast. Let the others know we're on the way, and sent Leianna and Sten out to watch for us. Me and Zevran will start to carry Alistair back. Between us we should manage it..." She did not mention how tired she was, nor how defenseless it would leave them. She would have to count on Zevran's keen senses and her own ability to detect the darkspawn to keep the three of them safe.  
Morrigan looked like she might protest, but something in Aeducan's eyes made her bite back any snide remarks. Instead, she turned pointedly from Zevran. Ever since the assassin had commented that he had seen a flash of breast as Morrigan shapeshifted, the swamp witch had been reluctant to use that school of magic around the elf. Not that stopped Zevran from using his dagger blade as a makeshift mirror.  
Back arching up gracefully, Morrigan changed into a wolf, and after giving a quick shake, started off back to camp.  
Zevran bandaged the gash on Alistair's arm as best he could, and then watched with mild amusement as Aeducan tried to heave Alistair by grabbing under his arms.  
"You are going to dislocate his shoulder... and probably do yourself an injury too. He's much too heavy with all that armor."  
Aeducan dropped the arm she was struggling with, starting slightly as it hit the ground with a clatter.  
"Good grief, remind me not to get hurt around you! Here, hold him to the side while I get those straps undone. After all, I do rather excel at getting people out of their clothes..."  
By now she was used to Zevran's continuous flirtations and practiced at ignoring him. Definitely not looking at the elf, who would be grinning far too wide, lady Aeducan unceremoniously grabbed Alistair by his chest plate and tugged him into her lap, a hand against his forehead to stop it hitting the dusty earth.  
Soon, they had managed to get the straps of his chest and arm loosened, and as they tipped him to his other side, the armor fell away. Zevran was about to start taking off the bottom half of the armor when Aeducan gave a small disapproving squeak.  
"My dear, if you want to try and drag these great clunking pieces of metal, please be my guest. Myself, I am rather tired and do not relish the idea of hefting platemail cross country while avoiding further attacks. And would it not be best to get his Grand Sleepyness here to safety as quick as possible?"  
"You are right..." Aeducan frowned as Zevran went back to work, looking entirely like he was enjoying this too much.  
"You get the boots, and then I think we shall be set to go. We can stash the armor under a bush, and if Alistair really wants, he can fetch it back tomorrow."  
Each boot took more effort to pull from the limp feet than she was expecting, and it made her appreciate that she favoured light leathers. She turned to look, and was suddenly struck at how exposed Alistair was. Zevran, returning from tossing the plate at the local shrubbery, followed her glaze, nodding appreciatively.  
"Hmm, very nice... Ow!"  
Aeducan held up a hand as if she might swat at him again should these comments continue, then gestured for Zevran to take one side while she lifted the other.  
Alistair was a dead weight, and heavy even when stripped of his armor. The two rouges struggled, and gritted teeth as they made very slow process towards the camp. Aeducan's size awkward at best, she tried very hard not to loss her grip as her hands started to grow damp with sweat. Soon she grudgingly had to call a stop so they could both catch their breath.  
They rested Alistair by a tree, and Zevran checked his breathing and pulse again.  
"I don't know about you, but I feel a diet may be in order for our friend here. Less cheese certainly!"  
Aeducan laughed, and didn't noticed Alistair's eyes flutter.  
"I can't believe how worn out I am!" she exclaimed. The assassin nodded, rubbing his arms pensively.  
"I fear I may be somewhat sore come the morning. I can honestly say this is a new type of exertion for me."  
Alistair, battling a headache and a healthy doze of drowsiness, thought that he heard Zevran. And Aeducan. Discussing something that sounded altogether .. dirty.  
"I could really do with a bath after this." Aeducan muttered, feeling her skin sticky from the sweat, not to mention the blood from the battle.  
"Me too... Perhaps we could share..." Zevran batted his eyes sweetly, sidestepping Aeducan's second playful swipe. "Still, I am surprised that he stayed asleep through it all."  
"Me too.."  
That moved the alarm level in Alistair's mind up a notch... What in the marker's name had they been up to, and why was he involved... And why was he in his small clothes?  
His eyes flew open, to see Aeducan and Zevran staring down at him. He made a strangled noise of panic, and tried to get promptly fell forward, Aeducan and Zevran both too surprised to catch him in time. Face first in the mud, he made quite a sight.  
As Aeducan hurried to his side, Zevran could help but cast a sideways glance at Alistair's rear, smirking to himself.  
"Alistair, much as I appreciate the view, if you do not sit back down, I may be unable to control myself."  
Aeducan shot the elf an angry glare as Alistair floundered, blushing and muttering something about leaving him out of their 'strange sweaty sex games'. She heaved him upright, and he slumped back down, looking somewhat terrified.  
"Calm down... We were..."  
"Where is my armor?" Alistair's voice was slurred slightly, and his eyes unfocused. Aeducan realised that though he was awake, and speaking, he was still under the poison's influance. Which explained his confusion.  
Zevran grinned showing teeth, "We thought it best to get you out of that cumbersome plate, so we left it back there, about a mile or two down the road."  
"Not helping!" Aeducan cried, as Alistair flushed a brighter shade of crimson. Zevran chuckled.  
"You got yourself cut with a poisoned blade, so we had to carry you. You were too heavy in your armor, so we had to take it off. I'm sorry, and tomorrow I'll walk with you to collect it."  
"Ah... you take all the fun out of it." Zevran sighed, and bent beside Alistair, placing his hand against the big man's neck, the other hovering just in front of his mouth. Alistair was about to launch into a new set of protests, when Aeducan fixed him with a steely glare. Alistair gulped, and let Zevran access his condition.  
"Hmm... I sincerely doubt you will be able to walk on your own at present."  
"Oh sod..." Aeducan hissed quietly.  
"We best get moving though, it would be too treacherous to travel at night." Zevran offered Alistair an arm, and heaved him up, Alistair's arm over his shoulders. Aeducan copied, and though a bit lopsided, they found that though dazed, Alistair could at least try to put one foot in front of the other, and take some of the strain from them. They made better time now, and though the effort stole their breath too much for conversation, there was a commandrie present. Plus Zevran's inital guess that Alistair would be all right seemed correct, and a weight lifted from lady Aeducan's chest.  
A warm bedroll started to not seem such a distant prospect, and Aeducan found that she was smiling. As they finally rounded the last bend in the road, and could see Sten's giant figure coming towards them, the three each breathed a sigh of relief.  
Suddenly, Alistair gave a yip, and glared at Zevran.  
"What?"  
"You pinched my bum!" Alistair's voice was high pitched, and he squirmed, but the two rouges held him steady.  
"I did no such thing!"  
Zevran nearly dropped the extemplar when he looked to Aeducan to protest his innocence, and saw the dwarf blushing furiously. He gave her a wink, behind Alistair's back, and grinned all the way back to camp.


	10. Fade Encounter

prompt: The Warden encounters quite a few desire demons throughout the game, but never falls prey to one. I'd love to see a fill where one of those demons manages to give her a Fade dream, something intense and sexual. The Warden expects it to be about Alistair or Zevran, but the demon pulls a deep, buried fantasy from her subconscious and instead she dreams about getting fucked by Loghain.

Sonara!f/Loghain, bondage, dub-con, demons and smut.

It had tired of its Templar pet. His fantasy was too mundane to satisfy the desire demon's hunger, and it craved something richer, darker. Almost idly it allowed the glamour and spell it had wove around the Templar's heart and mind to drop, his loving wife, healthy children fading to nothing as he stupidly blinked. Watching him fall to the ground, and _beg_ for it to return him to his fabricated existence, it remained impassive. It was bored, and frustrated at the meagre meal the Templar provided, disappointed at the sad, simple little life he wished for. His mortality stretched ahead of him in slow, idyllic years and the idea of being bound to such a tedious man irked the desire demon.

Tears in his eyes, the Templar started to demand that it return to the form of his wife. It had assumed the visage, tempted by the notion of experiencing mortality, before realising its folly. It had taken the Templar from the mage's tower, saved him from the host of abominations and blood magics swarming within the walls, and defended his illusion, even when the grey wardens had approached them.

The power and strength in the female, as she watched with contempt at the bewitched Templar, had struck a chord of intrigue with the desire demon at the time, but it had been too distracted by the Templar to fully appreciate her appeal. She had allowed them to leave unharmed, dark amusement playing behind the mage's eyes at the idea of a Templar being trapped for a change, and this now tickled the back of the demon's mind. _She_ would not be satisfied with a conjured monotony, no modest mirage would captivate her.

It left the Templar, clutching at the mud in despair, his broken mind like a beckon to its brethren. The fade wrapped round the desire demon, black shadows already descending on the hapless Templar.

It was easy to find the grey warden, her trail cut across land and fade alike like a brutal sword. She was in the forests, attempting to save the Dalish as she had the magi at the tower. There was a pride demon, tugging at the edges of her mind as she fought against a pack of werewolves, and trying to fan her ego. This the desire demon quickly dispatched, hissing its claim. It followed, out of sight, cloaked in fade, as the grey warden finally told her companions that rest was needed before they entered the temple ruins. Stalking round the hastily made up camp, the desire demon chased off a further two demons, desperately grabbing at the wardens. They were small, hardly worth the trouble, but the desire had its sights set upon the grey warden female, and would not share.

The grey warden went into her tent, and the desire demon started to weave the fade around itself, bringing forth a stage for its new conquest. As sleep claimed her, the grey warden stood, looking of all things, exasperated.

"What are you doing demon? I can see you, sulking about in the fade. Following me..."

The tone, so confident, thrilled the desire demon. This indeed was a creature of untold strength, a feast if it could only unlock her passions. It tasted the air, sensing the secrets the grey warden carried inside her head. Unspoken lust and hidden desires, these things sang to the demon.  
"I seek to serve one such as you... I would guard your dreams, fulfill your fantasies..." Its voice was soft, silky. It assumed no glamour, letting the warden witness it in its true form, a token of sincerity.

"I do not make deals with demons. Go away, or I will destroy you."

It was a powerful entity itself, having fed off the Templar and his pitiful hopes and dreams, and it was this power it used to twist the fade, stone walls forming around them, its own appearance shifting as it sought out a face that would halt the mage from attacking.

Sonara saw the demon start to walk towards her, harsh cobbles and rock forming in its path, the shape of a room building so vividly that she could *feel* the cold of the stone through her own bare feet. It changed as it walked, faces, some familiar, others strangers flickering across its body. One of the enchanter lecturers, a knight from Redcliffe, a woman in a red dress, an elf, a dwarf, and countless others.

Then Alistair was smiling, lopsided and warm, and Sonara had to hold herself from matching his soft expression. Then skin darkened, and Zevran was smirking, and Sonara flushed that the desire demon could read her inner thoughts so easily. She scowled, and started to pull magic into her hands.

The demon was close now, and just before the mage could loose her spell, it found the form it was looking for. Magic spluttered as Sonara stared unbelieving at the desire demon's face, a dark haggard face, black hair and cold eyes, and a sneer that could only be Loghain's.

"Ahh, little warden, what a secret you keep. What would Alistair think, if he knew...?" The voice was rich, and held a humour only Loghain seemed privy to. It was mocking, and Loghain circled the mage, looking her up and down, as if assessing her.

"Loghain! No, you are mistaken demon. I do not desire that man, that bastard murderer." Sonara tried to turn and keep the demon in her sight, but she felt dizzy trying to face him as he walked around her, his manner sure and steady.

"You are a terrible liar... I would not be here if your heart sang for another."

Sonara then lunged at Loghain, her fists crackling with energy. Loghain was quick, and grabbed both her slim wrists in his hands, wrapped in silver gantlets, and crushed them, the magic failing as Sonara gasped in pain. She struggled, tried to pull away, tried to summon her magics but Loghain allowed her no reprieve as he lifted her by her wrists. his eyes looked into hers, and she could not disguise a tremble as his lips spilt into a wicked grin.

"Not so strong now, without your friends, without your precious treaties...Without even the smallest shred of magic to protect you..."  
Sonara kicked, unable to concentrate well enough to cast, and caught Loghain against his armoured thigh. He laughed, and slammed her against the wall. It might have been the fade, but Sonara felt the impact through her body, and Loghain pressing against her. She twisted in his grip, snarling and spitting.

The desire demon, wearing Loghain's skin and relishing the way it made the mage react, looking to where it held the grey warden. Licking its lips, it started to pull new forms from the fade, the sound of metal above her making Sonara glance up, startled. Manacles, with nails embedded to press against the wrists as a measure to stop mages from casting, shimmered into being. Two lengths of chain, one connecting the thick chuffs to each other, a longer length of linked metal holding them solidly to the wall. Her struggles renewed, as she saw Loghain catch both her wrists in one hand and reach for the cuffs with his other. He gave a short, low growl and drew back, then forwards, beating the mage against the wall.  
She felt cold metal close around her wrist, as the daze lifted, sharp points digging into her wrist, the runes on the manacles glowing faintly. The other was affixed, and she hung from the wall, Loghain taking a step back to let the chain support his captive. Her feet barely touched the floor.  
"Hmmm... So this is the grey warden giving me such trouble? A scared little mage, trying to make everything right. But you know that you cannot save everyone... and that gnaws at your heart, doesn't it? Sooner or later, you will make a mistake, and people will suffer... because of you." Loghain pulled the gauntlet from his hand, then the other, and crossed his arms, watching Sonara like a hungry wolf. He came in, fast like a striking snake, and caught her face in his hand, forcing her to look at him.

"You crave someone to come and take responsibility, to take control so you don't have to be strong anymore... Oh little grey warden, _I_ will take control... "

He stroked against her face, rough fingers tracing down the line of her jaw, and then closed his mouth over hers. She pulled back as far as she was able, until the back of her head hit the wall, but Loghain pushed forwards, his tongue running across her lips. With a defiant snarl she bit down, his lip between her teeth bloody as he fought her off, a fist balled in her hair.

He was still smiling as he touched his lip, seeing his fingers come away red. What a glorious creature the desire demon had found, fighting against her own desperate needs, trying to be strong even as she craved to be claimed. It would be a delight to wear her down, and it could not help a small shiver of anticipation at the thought of slowly breaking apart her fiery spirit. The demon, Loghain, tightened his fist, the pain lacing through the back of her head. She ground teeth together as she exposed her neck, trying to loosen the grip he had on her hair.

The smell of him surrounded her, battle-worn armor and sweat and masculine musk, and she knew the demon was pulling the thoughts from her head. The mage would not submit to a relationship, the blight too pressing to allow herself to be distracted by Alistair's charm and good nature, or Zevran's suave promises of passion. Dragged across the land like a puppet, she knew that she had no time for fanciful affairs. She had been polite in her refusal of both man and elf's advances, but bitterly disappointed when both had accepted her choice and not forced the point. Alistair, blinded by duty, and Zevran, fearful of anything more than a night of lust, had not seen that she was trapped by her role and unable to pursue what she wanted, sacrifice her happiness for Ferelden. The only man who could possibly understand, who would have the raw strength to beat down her boundaries and give her what she yearned, stood before her.

She knew the desire demon was but a mirror to her longings, wearing the skin of the man who she hated and lusted for in equal parts. A man she had no fear of falling in love with, a man who would take control, take _her_ and not give her a choice in the matter. Though she might despise her own weakness at such an appetite to be ravished completely, she could not deny its appeal. The growing tingle at the base of her spine, heated sensation collecting in her sex bore witness to that.

A single fingertip, possessive, ran down the length of her bared neck, and Loghain opened his hand to enclose the back of her head, holding her steady as he undid the clasp of her robes.

Cold air, colder stone, touched upon her skin, and Sonara felt an angry blush rise under Loghain's scrutiny of her body, his hands sliding over her flesh.

"Exquisite... " he murmured, as he seized upon the fabric hanging loose over her chest. He pulled at it, her body shifting forwards slightly before the material began to tear. the vibrations of the clothe being torn from her rattled through her body, and soon she was hanging exposed. ripped shreds bunched behind her, hanging by her sleeves, at least offering some protection from the scraping stone wall. Loghain's face was rapt, fascinated as he watched her bare herself to him, not trying to hide her shame, fierce even now.

"Exquisite..." he repeated, the demon inside skillfully filling the word with the chord of true desire, inducing a shiver from the mage. His hands covered her, skimming over her hips, caressing her breasts, tracing the round line of her belly, and then down the inside of her thigh. She struggled, bucking and hissing but he pressed forwards, trapping her between the wall and his own body. She snapped at him, briefly, as his fingers dragged fingernails up from the back of her knee upwards, before hooking over her small clothes and pulling them from her.

He fixed eyes upon her as his hand touched against her sex, lightly stroking up the line, brushing against the tip, teasing. Without looking down, his lips crackled open in a slow grin. "Little warden, you are so..very...wet... At least your body does not lie." She writhed, trying to suppress the fire running through her, trying to force her body not to respond. Chuckling, Loghain smeared a damp line on her cheek, testament to what she would deny, and plunged his fingers into her. Two fingers, buried to the knuckles, curling and flicking inside, his palm grinding against the outside, applying just the right amount of pressure. She arched, the soft curves of her body taunt as she pressed against the wall. Her ears filled with the approving murmur of Loghain, and her eyes squeezed shut to stop the shame from leaking down her face.

He was unhurried as he slowly worked his fingers, stroking against her innermost flesh, massaging the damp smooth ripples of her, all the while watching as she bit down on any exhalations that might betray her. She trembled as he withdrew, licking his fingers clean with a wicked sneer, and starting to remove the heavy plates of metal covering him. He took time in this, flashing her a knowing smirk whenever he caught her glancing as his toned body, revealed bit by bit as the armor piled on the floor at his feet.

Patient, like a stalking animal, he waited until she turned her face to him, letting her see him, standing ready. Skin that had seen sword blows but not sun, hatched scarring running over arms and chest, corded muscles twisting over the bone, a dark line of hair running from his navel downwards. He held his hands out as her eyes cast lower, confidently taking a step towards the mage.

"Like what you see?"

She jerked her head up, and found Loghain cupping her face. She could almost feel the blood pulse through his palms as he placed a mocking kiss against her lips, drawing away before she could try and bite. Hot hands on her hips, pulling her forwards, the tip of his erection against her like a fire brand. She twisted in his grasp, and with a growl he lay fevered kisses down her neck, a hint of teeth scraping her skin. A small whimper escaped her as she felt those commanding lips press deeper, sucking against the crown of her breasts. He rocked, and started to push inside her, his smile failing as he gasped with the sensation.

Squirming with every slow inch, she felt him enter, filling her with heat and sensation. He grunted, breathing heavy into her neck, as he penetrated her completely. Hands over the tops of her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh, he held her there, as she trembled at his mercy. Even her core quivered, and Loghain pulled her from the wall, nudging deeper, letting her felt how hot he was embedded in her, his heat seeping through.

With a long sweep of his tongue up her neck and over her stained cheek, he let his grip relax. He let the wall support her, her wrists growing numb, her arms aching, then pushed forwards, claiming her again. His pace was sure, deliberate, every thrust deep. Finally, a breathless cry broke from her, and he renewed his assault, determined to pull her voice from her without reservation.

A hand slammed against the wall either side of her head, and her body crushed against the wall, her toes dangling and Loghain's hips grinding against hers, Sonara felt the air in her lungs desert her. Using the wall to hold the mage in place, Loghain flicked the chain from the nail that held it, taking two attempts but finally letting the chain slacken. Sonara's arms fell to her sides heavily, the return of the blood almost painful. Then Loghain, arms wrapped under her shoulders, drew back from the wall. The weight of the mage was slight, but all of it fell upon his manhood, and Sonara keened, voice trembling. She managed, somehow, to move her still bound arms over Loghain's head, forearms resting on his board shoulders as he lifted her up and down his length. Sweat glistening on his forehead with the effort, his own body starting to shake as his grunts grew animalistic.

Sonara could feel herself grow close, the intense pressure building as Loghain pounded into her. She came with a cry, body flushing with heat and pleasure, voice unrestrained. With a soft sigh, she slumped into his embrace.

With a triumphant howl he released, and he staggered to the floor, Sonara draped over him, limbs entangled together.

"My little warden..." he crooned, stroking the hair from her face, "Know that I am not finished with you, not by a long way... During the day I will protect you, no other demon will touch you. But at night, in the fade, you are mine..."

* * *

Sonara gasped awake, to see Alistair hovering uncertainly at the opening to her tent, his eyes turned away from her nightclothes.  
"I heard you cry out... Another nightmare?" he asked, cheeks tinged with embarrassment at being in a lady's tent uninvited. Sonara's mouth was dry, and she couldn't think to form words of a reply. Behind Alistair, she saw Zevran peering over the ex Templar's shoulder, having no qualms about peeking.

"Grey wardens get nightmares." Alistair explained to the assassin, quietly blocking the elf's view. "They are worse for those who have just joined, and horrible. The archdemon screaming, waves upon waves of darkspawn... Sonara, do you need anything?"

"No... no... I'll be all right." Sonara's voice was quiet, and Alistair knelt down by the tent flap, eyes still pointedly not looking at the mage. Zevran had disappeared, so at least she only had to reassure Alistair.

"Really, you should not fret over me. I am fine..."

"I've never heard you cry out like that... Are you sure?"

Sonara crept over, gathering blankets to cover herself more for Alistair's sake that her own dignity. She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, and forced a smile.

"Really. Now, you should stop worrying yourself over me and get some sleep."

Alistair brightened visibly, and did not even seem to mind that Zevran pulled back the tent flap and sat down, practically in his lap, holding a cup of something that had a strange scent. He offered it to Sonara, smiling warmly.

"Wait... What is that Zevran?" he asked, the suspicion clear in his voice.

"A cup of concentrated crows bane..." the elf replied causally, then quickly pulled the cup back from Alistair's clumsy flailed hand. "Truly Alistair... You have such faith in me! It's actually a sleeping tonic, diluted with hot water but it should lull you get back to sleep. I will drink first, if it will reassure you..."

"No need Zevran." Sonara took the cup, ignoring Alistair's glare of disapproval. She knew what waited for her in the fade, and without hesitation drank it down. She handed the cup back to Zevran, and smiled in gratitude.

"Now, gentlemen. If you would kindly get yourselves from my tent...?"

Alistair and Zevran politely retreated, and Sonara lay back. A small smile played on her lips, at the thought of returning to the fade and her new pet desire demon.


	11. Hopping borders

**Prompt: Zevran convincing Alistair to 'hop borders'.**

**zev/alistair, first time awkwardness, m/m**

A giggle rang out across the camp. The grey warden mage, and the red haired bard where whispering to each other, bodies pressed close together as they filled each other's ears with secrets Alistair felt sure would only make him blush.

The ex templar sat by the fire, trying very hard not to notice that Lelianna was dragged by the grey warden to the river, still laughing. As the echoes of their mirth faded, Alistair heard a soft sigh to his side, and the elf he had not observed sitting gave him a knowing smile.

"It is a beautiful thing, is it not?"

"Huh?" Alistair had not flailed out and hit Zevran in surprise, which he saw as a small accomplishment. Though he had never actually made contact, the elf being far too quick, he felt better that at least he did not fear assassination as much.

"Our grey warden and Lelianna, a more prefect pair I could not imagine. I take it they have gone to frolic in the waters ...again. Even though they extend no invitation to join them, if they would permit me watch, then I should die happy." Zevran gave an exaggerated flutter of his eyes, and grinned at Alistair.

"You would die, certainly, with an arrow through your chest and a fireball sizzling your hair." As the elf laughed, Alistair hoped the fire light was too low for Zevran to see his face flush with the idea of the grey warden... his grey warden... entangled with the bard.

He had gifted her with a rose, and though he stumbled over the words, he had though at least he sounded vaguely sensible in declaring his feelings. Like something from a fairy tale, he had thought she would fall into his arms, and that they would face the blight together, each trusting and finding strength in the other. Then, she had, very carefully and with a lot of care, broken apart his heart. She said that she did not, and would never feel the same way. She hoped that they would remain close friends, and that it was no fault of Alistair's. She then, two days later, followed the bard into her tent, and did not exit it until morning.

That had been some month and a half ago, and he still could not accept her decision. His chantry upbringing, and every tale of love and romance grated against the idea of the pairing. Alistair sighed into his hands, and stared into the fire.

"S'not right..." he muttered, and then realised he'd spoken aloud. He glanced up to see that Zevran had indeed heard him, and was frowning.

"That two ladies might find solace in each other's company? What is wrong with that?"

"They are *doing* things. Not natural things..."

Zevran gave Alistair an understanding look, he'd witnessed the fawning ex templar try to win the grey warden mage and fail, and could sympathise. He too had tried to win over the mage, but had quickly realised that her preference lay elsewhere. It was not such an alien concept to him, and he realised he was in a better position to move on than Alistair, who was obviously suffering from first-crush syndrome, and well as being hampered by a ream of chantry tainted morals.

"Alistair, why should a woman not find pleasure with whomever she chooses? Would you force a husband upon her, against her wishes?" The assassin's voice was soft, free from any mocking tone.

"No..."

"Then why assume that she could only find happiness with a man? Lelianna herself is a chantry disciple, yet she shows no qualms about the situation. The fairer sex are complicated creatures, and who better to understand them than another female?"

Alistair gave a brief jerk at the word 'sex' and Zevran had to fight to keep his face straight as he challenged both Alistair preconceptions of relationships, and his chronic inexperience.

He gave a sigh, choosing his words carefully. "Trust me Alistair, though a man and a woman is a more standard formation, there is nothing wrong in a woman loving a woman... or a man loving a man for that matter. You have already rejected the chantry ways and not become the templar they would have you be, let yourself likewise forget their silly notions about who can or cannot participate in one of life's great pleasures. After all, you have surely realised that I do not exactly follow the scripture to the word, yet has any terrible fate befell me? No. Nor has a desire demon reached out from the fade and ripped off my private parts." It was a carefully played exaggeration, deliberately bringing ridicule to his argument, letting Alistair see how foolish some of the chantry ideals could be, when viewed in the right light. It seemed to work, Alistair breaking into a quiet chuckle. Zevran hoped that the thought of something unfortunately happening to his man parts was not the sole source of Alistair's amusement, but was satisfied that at least Alistair seemed to have relaxed about the idea of discussing his issues with Lelianna and the grey warden.

"They do seem happy..." Alistair grudgingly admitted.

"Of course. Lelianna is a skilled musician, and will know how best to play upon the most intimate places and make the grey warden sing-"  
"Ahhrgh! Zevran!" Alistair had clamped his hands over his ears, much to the assassin's dismay. Why no one had yet thrown Alistair into a brothel and locked the door until the ex templar overcame his overactive sensibilities was beyond him.

"Good grief Alistair, however will you learn about the world with your hands over your ears?" Zevran put his hands on his hips, and gave an exasperated shake of his head. sheepishly, Alistair lowered his hands, eyeing the elf with trepidation.

"Brought up in a chantry, remember? S'not my fault I'm... inexperienced."

"Ah. Well. If you were not so terribly shy, I might well be able to help in that regard." Zevran raised an eyebrow and smirked, half expecting Alistair to resume his standard hand-over-ears and tuneless singing. When the ex templar said and did nothing, but did not straight away refuse his offer, Zevran's interested suddenly was piqued. He shot Alistair a questioning glance.

"You... you are perhaps considering my proposal?"

"No... yes... maybe... I don't know." Had Alistair not looking so entirely miserable in his indecision, Zevran might have walked away. He was not one to hold someone's hand whilst walking them through the delicate dance of coupling, and it was not a matter of challenge, despite his comment to Shale. No, there was something about Alistair, a kindness Zevran had always thought a weakness, instead a facet of the man he was drawn to. He wanted to make Alistair happy, help him forget his infatuation with the other grey warden. Shuffling closer he laid a very gentle hand upon Alistair's bowed shoulder, the broad man curled around himself.  
"It is also true that a man will understand the more masculine urges, and know how best to pleasure a fellow man..."

Alistair looked up, and saw Zevran start towards his tent, pausing briefly to see if Alistair would follow. Slowly, almost reluctantly, Alistair got up, and after checking no-one was watching, followed Zevran into his tent.

-

Zevran's tent was small, but had a pile of blankets collected over the sleeping roll. Alistair shot Zevran a disapproving glare, knowing that both he and the dog had been blamed for losing the fleeces and coverings that had 'gone missing' during their journeys. Zevran ignored Alistair's silent accusations, and settled himself on the blankets, starting to remove the straps on his leather armor.

Unsure, Alistair swallowed dryly, and his hands came up to heaver in front of him, looking entirely lost.

"Please, make yourself comfortable..." Zevran offered, when he saw that Alistair would likely stand until darkspawn took him if left to his own devices. Gratefully, Alistair sat, his own armor making it awkward to find somewhere where the plate would not dig into his legs. Suddenly Zevran was too close, and deftly unbuckling his bracers. Alistair stumbled backwards, one leg raised in defence. Zevran merely lifted his hands and backed off, smiling to show that he was prepared to let Alistair set the pace.

He proceeded to remove his own leathers, peeling them from him without hurry nor undue ceremony, guessing that either would only make Alistair more nervous. He was struggling with his buckles as it was. He glanced up, about to ask to help with the buckles on his side which were hard to unfasten by yourself, when Alistair saw that Zevran was lounging and completely naked.

His eyes automatically darted away, but then he realised that he would have to eventually look at the assassin, so might as well get used to the idea. Casting his eyes, he saw sleek muscles and smooth tanned skin, dark think swirls of ink over a shoulder, a hip, round an ankle. Zevran, satisfied that Alistair was admiring him, reached a hand over, and Alistair allowed the barest touch of fingertips on his elbow to guide him over. He heard the buckles on one side clip apart before he realised Zevran was working them, one handed while the other rubbed the back of his knuckles against a blushing cheek.

Alistair shucked off his armor, kicking it to the side as he nervously raised his own hand to touch Zevran. His mouth dry, and the air suddenly heavy and hard to draw into his lungs, but as soon as his fingers touched upon the skin he gave a sigh, seemingly relieved that he had not been struck down from on high for such an act. Zevran allowed Alistair to stroke his cheek, his eyes half closing when Alistair found the line of his jaw, or tilting his head as the warrior ran a single fingertip up to the point of his ear.

Chancing to glance downwards, Alistair was shocked to see the effect he was having on the Antivan. His chest tightened, and he stopped, his breath and wits deserting him. Zevran gave a reassuring smile, and plucked the hem of Alistair's shirt in his fingers, lifting it over the head, giving Alistair a second to collect his thoughts. He pressed a little closer, and, resting a hand on Alistair's shoulder partly to reassure, partly to stop the ex templar from bolting, pressed their lips together in a kiss. A pleasant tingle, like drinking fizzy wine, spread across his mouth, and Alistair was surprised to find his mouth opening willingly as Zevran probed with his tongue. The experience of kissing was new, and not as slimy as he had thought it would be. It was heated, and at times awkward when their noses bumped together, but Zevran carefully cupped the side of Alistair's face in his hand, and guided them. Soon Alistair was feeling light-headed, as he ran his tongue over Zevran's, finding that if he circled the other's lips, or used his teeth just a little, he could make Zevran exhale in breathy pants.

They broke, breathless, Alistair realising that Zevran perhaps had the right ideal in taking off his trousers, as his were feeling decidedly tight. He pushed them over his hip, and return to the kiss, Zevran leaning back and running fingers through his hair. Soft caresses over his neck and back, fingernails digging grooves up the top of his spine, making it very hard for Alistair to concentrate on kissing without letting saliva dribble down his chin.

Then Zevran snaked a hand downwards, and pressed his hand lightly upon Alistair's small clothes. A small nod, and Zevran pushed them down, and ran slender fingers up his length, watching as it stiffened. His cheeks were engulfed in a blush, as Zevran stroked up and down, applying pressure at just the right places, reducing Alistair to a shuddering silence.

It felt good, and Alistair's head clouded as Zevran skillfully wrapped both hands over his member, drawing the loose flesh over his tender tip. When he stopped, suddenly, Alistair all but cried out in protest. Zevran, licking his lips in a manner that would have had him worried any other time, simply made a turning gesture with a single finger, twisted to get a small bottle from his kit bag.

Alistair didn't move, the small bottle looking too much like possible poison for him to risk turning his back, and unsettled by Zevran's curved lips and flash of teeth.

"It is oil."

"Why do you need oil?"

"Turn around, and I will show you." This was delivered in a breathy whisper, and Alistair slowly complied, trying to turn his head to see what Zevran was up to as the assassin knelt behind him.

"Relax... This may be strange at first, but it will be worth it."

Alistair nearly sprung to his feet as he felt a slick finger trace down his spine and inbetween his buttocks, but Zevran had anticipated this, and placed his other hand solidly between his shoulder blades, firmly deterring Alistair from getting up. Alistair tried to remember to breath as Zevran stroked up and down, before starting to rub against his entrance. He was gentle, but persistent in pressing his finger inside, and it twisted, running along the inner walls until...

Alistair jerked, and gasped, and Zevran made note of the position of that particular spot, giving Alistair a second to compose himself before stroking against it once more. He removed the hand on Alistair's back, using it to balance as he built up a rhythm of slow strokes within Alistair, before adding a second finger.

"Zevran! I had.. I had no idea!" Alistair pushed his rear up into the air, between surprised gasps and moans, his weight too much to have on his member. He was about to reach under him to touch himself, when Zevran clasped his wrist and pushed it away.

"If you are ready, and willing, I am going to take you. And if you even think about saying 'take me where?' so-help-me I will feed you to the next darkspawn we come across!"

Alistair swallowed, he'd seen the elf, and though he was built like all elves, all slim and slender, it still seemed too much. Zevran had not yet steered him wrong though, and he could not deny his own engorged erection at the elf's attentions. He bit his lip, and nodded.

He felt hands on his hips draw him to all fours, and Zevran kneeled behind him, the heat from the assassin rolling across his skin. He saw Zevran apply oil to his penis, and then with a slow deliberate movement, start to push. The pressure was intense, and Alistair tried desperately to relax as instructed. As the muscles gave way to the invasion, the length rubbing over the swollen spot that made sparks appear before his eyes, Alistair fell forwards. Resting on his forearms, Alistair grit his teeth against the slight pain, followed by the feeling of being *filled*.

As hips bumped against his backside, Alistair saw Zevran curl a hand under him, and slowly start to stroke his manhood. Zevran hand working him, and already embedded within him, Alistair struggled to hold out, but as Zevran began to pump both his erection, and the elf's own hips back and forth Alistair felt himself release, over Zevran's knuckles and blankets. Zevran felt Alistair clench around him, and with a soft sigh of pleasure spurting his own seed deep into the ex templar.

He lay down on the blankets, beside the collapsed form of Alistair, whose eyes were already half lidded and breathing growing steady. Carefully drawing a sheet over his sleeping form, Zevran studied Alistair's expression of peace and smiled.

Now, how to boast his claim to Shale without Alistair self combusting through blush...?


	12. Desire and Deception

_prompt:f!__Sonara/zevran, non-con,_

_mage makes that deal with Connor's desire demon to force Zevran to fall in love with her. Anon would like this to be as fucked up as possible- Surana is just using Zevran for the sex and humiliation/power factor and manipulates him shamelessly with "you'd let me beat you up/pimp you out/fuck you even though you're injured and don't feel like it if you loved me :(" type bs._

He was waiting for her when she came into her tent, after yet another long discussion with the swamp witch. Laying upon carefully arranged blankets, undressed and lounging without shame, Zevran flashed a grin as Sonara closed the tent flap behind her.

"You have finished talking with Morrigan? I would be jealous if the idea of two gorgeous magi practicing their arts in seclusion was not quite so distracting." His brows rose and fell briefly, his grin growing wider as his accented words fell from his lips.

"Not now Zevran, I am wearied." Sonara's mouth was tight, granting the elf only the most cursory of glances.

Mischief quickly replaced the brief look of disappointment, and Zevran sat up, draping his arms over his knees. Golden skin and black tattoos covered a body sleek and honed, and his hazel eyes were full of adoration.

"Come, my dear. I waited up for you..." He extended a hand to her, and she gave a huff of exasperation.

"I said no. Unless you want to spend the tent in your own tent, I suggest you shut up and settle down." With a single searing glare, she stripped her clothes off, and extinguished the lanterns' light. She lay down, curled away from the elf even as he draped a protective arm around her. He propped himself up on an elbow, softly stroking her hair he watched her face. His eyes could pick out her features even in the darkness, every detail held precious in his memory. When she batted his arm away, he withdrew, but continued to watch his mage fall into the fade's embrace.

She was strong, and valiant in her efforts to halt the blight consuming the land. It was no wonder she was often tired, and could be short with him. He accepted it as part of her nature, part of the toll duty demanded of her. Though he would rather that she did not berate his every misstep, that fact that she only did this to him showed the strength of their relationship. She did not trust any other to stick with her through vicious comments and cutting remarks, she must know then that he would forgive her every trespass.

He would face down an ogre single handed, for her sake, his dear grey warden. She captivated him, like no other. He had confessed his heart, surprising himself in his fevour, but rejoiced when she appeared delighted with his stumbling admissions of love. Something about the mage made him feel like never before, all his fears and reservations concerning intimacy washed away by his unwavering devotion to Sonara. She was beautiful, a slight frame housing a spirit unmatched, dark hair hanging in a single braid down her back, chestnut in some light, ebony in others, but it was more than mere appreciation of her form. He knew, without doubt, that he loved her, needed her, would do anything for her. He was hers.

-

Morning light filtered through canvas, rousing her from sleep. Zevran was laying facing her, one hand under his head, the other resting against her side.

It had been almost tactical, to have the desire demon weave its spell over the elf's mind, in exchange for its life. He was an assassin, and she thought she would feel better knowing that he was bound to her, lest he take it into his head to complete the assassination attempt. He had, after all, tried to kill her then swear himself to her service. She was not so stupid to believe the oath, and so felt no guilt that she had allowed such demonic powers to be used on him.

She had been impressed at the strength of the magics the demon applied, Zevran almost instantly falling at her feet and declaring his heart was hers. Any true feelings he might have had for her were magnified, intensified to a near fanatical devotion. After years spent in the tower, feeling oppressed and less than human, it was gratifying to have someone bend so easily to her will. There was a thrill is seeing how far she could push the elf, and she had not yet found him raise issue with anything she did. She had been cruel, she knew, but convinced herself it was in her best interest to see how strong his loyalty was. To find the breaking point.

She denied him sex, when it was clear he hungered for her, bringing him to the point where he would beg to be able to touch her. She pointed out his errors in battle, blaming him for any injury bestowed upon her companions while he danced in and out of the shadows. She'd spent nights at the pearl, simply saying that she expected Zevran to understand that she had needs, needs his slim elven member could not fulfill, and if he loved her he would not begrudge her pleasure. She even took his gloves from him, the Dalish ones she'd given him which had made his voice falter with emotion, instead giving him a pair of enchanted ones, proclaiming them better. These things, these tests, he took with an unnerving grace and determination, his crow training seeming to steady him through even the most brutal of emotional assaults.

The earring though, had almost broken him, when she handed it over as payment for some rooms at an inn. The value of the earring could have bought all available rooms for half a month, but she refuses the inn-keepers offer of paying her back at least some of the excess. She had made sure Zevran witnessed the trade, waiting for him to protest, to intervene at the callous exchange of his precious token. He had said nothing, but quietly questioned her when they had retired to their room for the night. She had explained that he had said her could do whatever she liked with the earring, and that she did not think he would mind. Anger, perhaps even hate, that risen in his cheeks, and he had opened his mouth as if to say something scathing... then he had smiled, and nodded to her. He needed no reminder of his past, he had said, closing his hands over hers, not when she was his future.

Having a willing servant, especially an attractive and skilled one, amused Sonara. Such power was a heady addition, and the mage could finally understand the appeal in commanding vast armies, or standing vigilant over a tower full of magi. She doubted Alistair would have survived as a templar, the man had no stomach for such domination. *She* however, was rapidly discovering that the sway she held over the elf was intoxicating, and she sought new ways to prove her power over Zevran.

Zevran stirred and smiling weakly as he shrugged the sleep from him. Shuffling over the sleeping roll, he gathered Sonara into his arms and nuzzled against her neck, breathing deep the scent of her.

Sonara wriggled from his embrace, pulling a soft whine from the assassin, and sat, untwisting the cord of leather holding her braid and tidying her hair. She gave him a smile, and stroked the side of his face as he sleepily propped himself up on his arms, watching her run fingers through her dark hair.

"You are too enticingly lovely in the mornings, my dear... Will you not permit me to assist you in tending your locks?" He made to get up, but Sonara shook her head. She giggled darkly.

"Your skills with locks leave much to be desired... but perhaps you can tend to me another way..." She parted her legs, and leaned backwards, her hair falling in unbound waves down her back as she beckoned Zevran forwards. Eyes gleaming, and a grin that threatened to spilt his face, he crawled forwards. His breath against the inside of her thigh was delicious, and she writhed in anticipation as he kissed the soft skin of her navel.

A deft finger brushed up and down her sex, gentle, tantalizing. Impatient, she gasped him by his ear, and pulled his mouth to meet the moisture form there. He gave a short muffled cry, but complied, using his tongue to lick at the folds, his fingers rolling the nub above carefully, sparking sensation like electricity through her body. She arched as he delved deeper, tasting her ecstasy and trying not to mind that he grip she had on his ear was really quite painful. It was worth it, to feel her surge before him, crying his name in breathy gasps.

Climax rocked her backwards, and she saw Zevran rise up, his own erection pulsing with anticipation. Hiding a smirk, she pushed him aside. "No... we really shouldn't. I need to get the others ready for traveling to Haven."

Zevran tried again, hands upon his legs, his mouth gapping slightly as he fought to control his lust. She fixed him with a steely glare.

"No. I have a long day ahead, and I do not have time to cater to you."

Dejected, but putting a brave face on, Zevran started to dress. Sonara took longer than necessary to finish her hair, knowing that Zevran was politely wait for her to vacate the tent before he could bring himself to release. It amused her to see the elf wincing as he pulled tight leather over his hips, feeling the confining garment strain against his crotch. When Sonara finally left the tent, Zevran guiltily stroked himself to completion, feeling cheated that his seed spilt over his hand, rather than deep inside his lover.

-

Sonara had organized the camp, and Leliana was scurrying about, packing her things as Zevran sauntered over. He gave Leliana a sharp stare then turned to Sonara.  
"You are taking Leliana? I am not going with you?"

"No Zevran. You will stay here. I will return once we have located the ashes."

"Dear heart, you know that I do not like to be parted from you. It... it hurts when I am not by your side. Please, leave the bard here and take myself."

Sonara tutted loudly, and crossed her arms over her mage's robes. "Leliana is something of an expert on Andraste, she will be more useful. The matter is not open for discussion. You can make yourself useful seeing if Morrigan has finished brewing the lyrium if you like. I plan to head off as soon as possible."

Zevran gave his most charming grin, "Will you not at least come back to the tent so that I can bid you a safe journey properly...?" He licked his lips and leaned in to place a kiss, but Sonara took a step backwards, angrily waving him away. "Cut that out, for goodness sake. I am busy, and if you will not help, you should get out of my way."

"I am sorry..." he started, but Sonara had already started to walk over to Morrigan.

She did not even look him in the eye as she set off, Alistair, Leliana and Sten following the mage to Haven.

-

They had been gone three days, when Morrigan remarked that Zevran was no better than the mabari for pining for their mistress. Wynne bitterly reprimanded the witch for such a comment, but the truth of the statement rang true.

By six days, Wynne was having to pester Zevran to eat, his appetite failing as he moped about camp. His nights were torn apart by thoughts and fears that Sonara would perish without him to safeguard her, that she would die angry at their last conversation. That he would never again see her soft smile, nor her mouth open in sweet exhalation as they made love.

By eight days, his eyes were dark and his steps clumsy through lack of sleep. Even Morrigan had ceased her belittling commentary, on seeing the assassin rendered so.

"You did not strike me as the love sick type, Zevran." Wynne's voice was gentle, as she offered him a cup of tea. He sat heavily, and sipped the brew without comment. "Try not to worry, I am sure she is fine, and you will be reunited before you know."

"You have decided to accept that she and I are romantically entangled then?" Zevran's voice seemed flat, but he gave a weak smile at Wynne.

Wynne laughed, stirring sugar into her cup. "I admit I had my doubts, but it is clear you care for her deeply. I do not think i have ever seen anyone quite so... smitten."

Zevran was about to launch into a poetic flurry of the depths of his feelings to the elderly mage, that this was no simple crush or infatuation, that his heart sung only for Sonara and that it was a love strong and true. That 'smitten' did not begin to describe his dedication to his grey warden, and that he would gladly lay down his own life for her, when he heard a familiar clinking in the distance. He was on his feet, racing the dog as they ran to Alistair's armor, knowing Sonara must be near.  
The mage had no time to tell him to stop as he swept her into his arms, clutching her tight to him and whispering apologies into her ear. The mabari followed, gleefully barking and licking his mistress's hands. It was only when he found that Sonara was tense in his grasp that he took a step back to observe the returned companions.

Alistair's face was wane, and Sten looked... sad? No, not sadness, but grim. Sonara herself seemed tired, and her robes were charred at the hems. Leliana was nowhere to be seen.

Wynne and Morrigan had come up, Wynne bringing a bag of healing poultices and bandages. Wynne looked to the group, and frowned.

"Where is Leliana?"

Alistair made a small choking sound, as if trying to contain a sob, and Sten's face darkened, looking to Sonara. Sonara met Wynne's eyes and shook her head.

"Dead. Leliana is dead." her voice was unwavering as she delivered the news, her eyes cold. "I do not wish to talk about it." She started to stride towards the camp, Morrigan stepping aside to let her past. Wynne shot Alistair a questioning glance and his resolve broke.

"She killed her!" he said, disbelieve racking his voice. Sonara stopped and turned, glaring at the ex templar.

"What happened?" Zevran had never heard Wynne so demanding, but seeing Alistair, who had always been viciously loyal to the mage struggle to contain himself in her presence must have tipped her usually calm demeanor.

"Leliana attacked us, and we were forced to defend ourselves. She brought it upon herself." Sonara stared at Alistair while she spoke, her voice firm and commanding his silence.

"You desecrated the ashes, what else did you expect her to do!" he turned to Wynne, shaking his head sadly. "There was a cult, some dragon worshipping madmen. I though Sonara was just trying to avoid fighting them... but she... she poured dragon blood on the ashes, she ruined them! Leliana was beside herself, and she leapt forwards in grief and fury... and Sonara made her burst into flames... Maker... I can still hear her screaming..."

"It was not a good death." Sten said, his jaw tight as he watched Sonara face the consequences for her actions. The mage clenched her fists and stood, impassive as Alistair shuddered at the memory of how the bard died.

"How could you!" Wynne shrieked, and Zevran moved to place himself between the two magi as Wynne started forwards. "You have no right to do such a thing, you have destroyed one of the last treasures of this world! Not to mention killed one of your friends in cold blood!"

Wynne raised her hands, as if to cast magic, when Zevran flashed out a dagger, warning her against such action. Wynne saw the look in his eyes, and lowered her hands, mouth twisted in disgust.

"I will take my leave. I will not follow someone who can so callously discard that what gives men something to hope for."

Sonara's face remained stern, no sign of remorse as Wynne walked to her tent, emerging with a bag of her belongings and walking away. Stunned into silence, the rest of the group retreated to their tents, an air of dark foreboding hanging over them. Zevran followed Sonara.

He had liked Leliana, the bard had cheered him with songs from Antiva while they were on watch, and they had traded tips on poisons and pickpocketing. Still, he could only feel elation that she was gone, as this meant Sonara would allow him to accompany her more often, he being the only one able to spot a trapped flagstone, or force a locked door.

He was more distressed that Sonara had allowed Wynne to leave, without even trying to convince the elder mage to stay. Wynne had proven herself valuable in the most fearsome battles, her healing magics pulling him through on more than one occasion. She had looked after them too, prompting Alistair to eat more than just cheese, and putting aside her differences to help Morrigan with brewing the various potions the group required. Still, Sonara must have had good reason for her decision, and he would not doubt his grey warden.

He sat beside where Sonara had slumped down, rubbing his thumbs over her shoulders and neck.

"I am sure you did what had to be done, my love." he said softly, tipping his head to rest against her neck. "I am glad to see *you* safe and sound... I missed you."  
Sonara said nothing, but turned, smiling. There was something out of place in that smile, it was too wide, too sudden.

"I missed you too Zevran, I could have done with your help in Haven. I found magics in that place, powerful magic, but have not been able to practice for fear Alistair might take it into his head that I am a malificar. Won't you help me practice?"

"Anything for you..." He was unsure, magic always making him nervous. Sonara's power had been growing, the little mage able to conjure great storms of fire and lightening, and the look in her eyes as she razed her enemies chilled him sometimes.

"Good..." she murmured, and slowly raised a dagger in her hand. Before Zevran could react and knock it out of her reach, she cut herself, blade into her palm. The stink of blood filled the tent, and Sonara looked at Zevran, her eyes narrowing as she concentrated. Zevran felt himself grow lightheaded, and pain flashed through his body, making him double over and cough bloody breaths onto the tent floor. When he looked up, he saw Sonara, the tiredness gone from her eyes, sitting straight and strong as she drew from him.

"Stop!" he gasped, as another wave of pain washed over him. Sonara was laughing, as he slowly felt the magic dissipate.

"That was... more powerful than I had hoped..."

Zevran pushed himself up on his arms and stared at Sonara, as she licked the wound on her hand.

"Blood magic... Sonara, that is blood magic." he whispered, feeling weak, drained and scared.

"It is. I discovered how to unlock the power, and can you not see how marvelous it is? You have always said you would do anything to keep me safe, and now I can use your own blood to heal myself. Is it not want you wanted?"

"Not like that... "

Sonara sniffed, and crossed her arms. " I thought you loved me Zevran. but it seems you have a limit to what you will do for me... You would rather I bled until dry when we fight the archdemon? If you loved me... this would not be a problem for you. Perhaps you should go..."

Zevran tensed, and grasped Sonara's arm, his eyes clouded with conflict.

"No... no, I understand. It is just... different." he offered a weak grin, "If I can survive getting caught in one of your ice blasts, I can learn to deal with this... Please Sonara, I do love you. Never doubt it."

"Then you will help me practice some more? And keep my little secret? I doubt very much that Alistair would understand. He would try to kill me Zev, you won't let that happen, will you?"

"Never." he breathed, and was granted a smile, soft and sweet as Sonara stroked against the dark lines of ink on his face.

"There is one other spell I wish to try..." she whispered.

Zevran straightened, and nodded. Sonara was pleased that the assassin put such trust in her, and the idea of the next magic she would cast sent pleasant shivers through her. She cut her hand again, and waved it in front of Zevran. He watched, then his eyes seemed to glaze.

Fire ran through his veins, and he felt his hand moving on its own accord. He felt the metal of the dagger hilt Sonara offered him in his palm, but could not will his fingers to release it. He could not even halt himself as he pressed the dagger into his forearm, not even flinching from the sting of the blade. He wanted to shout, to break the spell Sonara had inflicted upon him, but he found himself helpless. Blood welled from the cut, deep enough that his teeth gritted as the hold over his body was released. He clamped a hand over the cut, letting the dagger fall and looking at Sonara wide eyed, pleading for explanation.

"Do not look at me like that, you said you would allow me to work the magic..."

"You... you hurt me Sonara."

Sonara laughed, "That is the beauty of the spell, you hurt *yourself*. But you have been brave, and such bravery deserves reward..." She leant in for a kiss, Zevran almost pulling away as she pressed against his injured arm. He held it up, thinking that she must not have seen the extent of the damage, but she pushed past it, blood marring her robes as she pushed her tongue into his mouth.

"No... Sonara, no. My arm... let me at least bandage it..."

She paid him no heed, wrapping an arm round the back of his head to stop him pulling away, her breath low and lustfilled as she drew herself deep into the kiss, forcing his lips apart.

He could not fight her, not when every day she had been gone he had lay awake wishing for this. He managed to tie a piece of cloth over his arm, blood already staining through, the blankets marked with red, as Sonara devoured him hungrily. Elated by her success with blood magic, she wasted no time in pulled Zevran's trousers from him, leaving his shirt on. Straddling his hips, using his own blood to slick his erection, she plunged downwards, biting into the soft skin of his neck as she rocked upon him. He tried to coax her into slowing, attempted to stroke against her cheek, kiss her heaving breasts, but she was relentless, and soon they were thrusting together.

She blazed hot, and tight, her knees pressing into his sides as she pumped her body up and down, at a pace that left her gasping for air. He could feel the ripples of her inner flesh against him, pulsating as they closed over his member, silky against his entire penis. Bodies clashing in conjunction, she keened loudly, throwing her head back. The tang of blood in his nose, he could only shudder as she drove him to release, her soft insides massaging along his length, her eyes sparkling with the effects of the forbidden magic.

She slumped against him, murmuring contentedly. As the haze of passion lifted, much as he was loath to break this blissful scene, he was aware that his arm needed tending to.

He found himself feeling strange as he got up. He recalled how it felt when she had used the blood magic to control him like a puppet, and a sudden fear struck him as he realized that the sensation had not entirely dissipated.

"Sonara, my love. I feel strange... I fear that your magic might still be upon me, could you dispel it... I do not like the thought that I am still under its effect."

She frowned, and shook her head, "The magic I cast is finished, stop being so paranoid."

Zevran's brows tightened on his forehead, and he tipped his head from side to side, trying to pinpoint the strange sensation within him. When he looked at Sonara, her hair hanging in messy strands, he felt the pull of something on his memories. "No... I am sure... there is something not right..."

The mage closed her eyes, drawing a blanket around herself. "Who is the mage here, you or I? I am telling you not to worry. Now, so have Wynne see to that arm before you bleed to death."

"Wynne is gone..." he said softly, but Sonara gave no indication that she had even heard.

-

Morrigan watched Zevran walk over, his arm held close to his chest.

"Morrigan, I find myself in need of your assistance. Could you perhaps take a look at my arm?"

"What happened? That is a deep cut." Her voice was quiet, as if she was scared someone might hear her showing concern for another. She threw the blood soaked cloth Zevran had used to stem the flow of blood directly into her fire, gesturing Zevran should sit before he collapse.

"I managed to catch myself on a dagger..." he said quietly. Morrigan gave him a look that told him she did not believe, but he did not allow that to concern him. She placed some herbs on the gash, and wrapped a fresh, clean bandage round his arm.

"There. Do you have any other clumsy wound you'd like me to tend, or can I get back to my brewing?" She had already turned away when she heard Zevran's voice, strangely uncertain. "If I might ask... What do you know about controlling magics...? I think I might be under some influence. I fear that something might make me hurt Sonara, I get a strange feeling whenever I look at her..."

"Ah." Morrigan turned and looked at Zevran with those strange yellow eyes, "So you have finally figured it out. Or at least started to."

Zevran looked at her, confused, and she sat down on the other side of the fire.

"Since Redcliffe, you have not been.. yourself as it were."

"Redcliffe.. but that was months ago!"

"I know... I am not sure what has occurred, and I was not about to poke my nose into Sonara's business, but it hardly seems fair to lead you on under false pretences. It stinks of desire manipulation. She probably struck some deal with the demon inside Connor, or some other fade spirit she should have had more sense than to talk to. I hate to think what she bargained with..."

"Sonara would not do something like that..."

Morrigan laughed, not a pleasant sound, "Sonara could not have done it alone, certainly, but such an act is not beyond the mage. She is not as innocent as she seems. Tell me, why do you stay by her side? I very much doubt it would offend your morals to break the verbal contract you gave her, and this is not a risk free adventure you involve yourself in."

"I love her." The words sounded hollow to his ears.

"Why?"

"I.. I am not whole unless I am with her. She is my everything."

"Yes yes, save me the bardic dribble. But why do you love her? Is it that she treats you well? She cares for your feelings and opinions? She respects you?" Morrigan gestured to his arm.

"Sometimes... sometimes she is kind to me..." Zevran felt as if his blood had turned to ice water, and a cold fear gripped his chest. He did not want to believe Morrigan, wanted to run back to Sonara, and have her reassure him that this was all some wicked fantasy concocted by a jealous swamp witch. Yet... through all his declarations of love, never once had Sonara returned the sentiment. He had been so delighted that she accepted his proclamations that he had not thought to seek her reply.

"The hold on you is weakening, now that you have realized."

"Why did you not tell me sooner...?" Zevran's face had turned tight, his words tinged with a growing anger.

"You would not have believed me. Even now, you'd rather discount what I have said in favor of the delusion. So it is up to yourself to either shake yourself free of the shackles, or face the truth. I should warn you though, some truths are hurtful, and you may find you would rather live with lies. If you want, I shall be here. I can rework the magics on your mind. You would be under Sonara's spell yet again, but at least that way, you get a say in the matter."

Zevran could not think what to say, his words deserting him. He gave a stiff bow, his arm still against his chest, the ache seeming of no consequence compared to the feeling that his heart was breaking.

-

By the following morning he had made his decision. Sonara woke to find him over her, watching intently as he stroked her hair, almost reverent in the soft touch of his fingers.

"Good morning, my love."

"Zevran, go make yourself scarce. I am tired, too tired to want to deal with you this early in the day."

"Of course my dear. Shall I make breakfast, perhaps a pot of tea?"

"As you like..." Sonara mumbled through an armful of blankets, and he left her to sleep.

The smell of hot oats and freshly brewed tea woke her, and she sat up to see Zevran carefully place a pot, two cups and a bowl of porridge by her side.  
"Breakfast in bed," he announced brightly, "for my sex goddess..."

"You seem chipper..."

"I realized that you are entirely right. Blood magic will surely give you an advantage over your enemies, and who am I to judge you on your talents, when I myself am an assassin. And I meant it when I said I would lay down my life for you, should it come to that. You have my permission, to do whatever you seem necessary if your fight against the darkspawn. I trust you."

Sonara looked at Zevran, his smile serene, and she felt a thrill that the assassin would place his life in her hands so easily.

She pounced upwards, throwing her arms around Zevran's shoulders, kissing against his cheek. He smelt of campfire smoke, and she let the scent fill her nostrils as he brought his hands round to caress her shoulders, running down the line of her spine. She twisted her head to the side, allowing him to place tender kisses down her neck, as she tugged his shirt over his head. She caught his injured arm, and had to pull the shirt over it when it became apparent Zevran could not lift it upwards without pain.

Bodies pressed together, Zevran freeing himself from the rest of his clothes as Sonara clawed her nails over his chest, bringing him out in goosepimples and leaving red lines in their wake. Cupping the back of her neck, he could feel her pulse pounding inside her and the softness of her hair brush against the back of his knuckles. He sighed, taking in every detail, filling his golden eyes with the sight of her. He carefully laid Sonara down upon blankets, still stained with russet from his injured arm, a hand snaking between her legs to find her soft folds, fingers wriggling inside as he breathed soft exhalations of wonder at the mage, arching in anticipation.

When he pressed his erection forwards, he was slow, and steady, marveling at the way Sonara would utter tiny squeaks as she reacted to the sensation of being filled. Each smooth thrust went deep, and let her feel every inch of penetration, sweat beading on his forehead. He told her how beautiful she was, how wonderful and tight and strong and sexy and amazing his grey warden was.

She tightened around his member as she felt climax take her, trembling as she felt Zevran carry on, biting his lip to grant her further pleasure. A single drop of blood smeared on his teeth as he pulled another orgasm from her shivering body, her squeal uninhibitated and unabashed. On hearing her delight, he permitted himself to find release as he drove deep, his own body shaking with the effort. She sighed softly as Zevran settled heavily to her side, curled into her chest, closing his eyes and smiling sleepily. She untangled herself, and gave him a little kiss upon his cheek, as she poured herself a cup of tea.

She was partway through drinking it, when she felt a pain rattle through her head, and her arms feel suddenly heavy and weak. Zevran's eyes snapped open, and he got to his feet, circling around Sonara as she reached for him, scared. She could not speak, the pain stealing away her words.

"I know." he said simply, as the mage drew shaking breaths, watching him with eyes so wide he could see the fear in them. Then she realized that he was not smiling, and the coldness in his eyes told her that her game was over. He *knew*.

"It is a poison, as you might have guessed. A powerful coagulant. It'll curdel your blood, a fitting fate for a blood mage, don't you think? It should also stop you casting, I cannot imagine you can draw power from congealed blood..."

Sonara gave a short scream, cut short as she ran out of air, and pulled her magics about her. Zevran easily evaded the flash of lightening, before Sonara slumped forwards, spilling the tea, her eyes open and pleading with Zevran.

"You should not have played with my heart, Sonara, such a thing it not a toy."

As Sonara's eyes glazed, Zevran felt no triumph. He felt empty, devoid of the fake feelings of love, but missing them even as he wrought his revenge. Pleasure before death was at least one gift he could indulge, even though he felt it was not deserved. It might have been better to give in, to at least life with the pretence of love, than have another woman die in front of him. Still, he reasoned, that did not matter much now.

The flicker of lightening had alerted the camp, and Alistair and the dog came dashing across to see what had happened. The great mabari saw Sonara first, as Zevran causally exited the tent, holding only a blood soaked blanket from the night before to cover himself. The dog looked past the assassin to his mistresses, laying on the ground. His massive head swung from her dead eyes to Zevran's cold ones, and he growled from the depths of his throat. Before Alistair could stop him, he lunged himself at Zevran, all teeth and rage. Later, when Morrigan asked what had occurred (though she suspected she took take an educated guess), a shocked Alistair would say that he thought he had seen Zevran tip his head to one side to expose his neck, just before the mabari's jaws ripped his throat out. 

the end.


	13. Fairytale gone bad

the prompt: Female Warden/Male; rough breakup sex filled with angst

It's several years after the Blight is overs and things aren't so good between the Female Warden and her lover. They realized they've lost their love for each other somewhere along the way and need to call it quits. Based off of Fairytale Gone Bad by Sunrise Avenue.

Fairytale Gone Bad

A mage and a Templar was a impossible combination, and he shown have known better. He had thought it love, when he had given her a rose, captivated by the delicate beauty of a fairytale come true. It seemed right that he should be her knight, his shield her protection against the archdemon. It seemed almost perfect when, through stumbling confession and furious blush, they had shared a kiss.

They had both politely ignored Zevran, when the assassin had tried to bring up the pressures of their task, and that though there was nothing wrong with 'stress relieve', they should not mistake it for love. Instead, Alistair had sought to prove the Antivan wrong, dedicated himself to bringing the fairytale to life.

They had both needed something, anything, to distract them from the whispers of the blight. Those nights, sweat slicked and lungs burning for breath, probably kept them sane when it seemed the whole land was against them. The little mage did not have many words, but she had called his name out against the darkness, and he had held her close.

It could have been love, he supposed, once upon a time. A desperate devotion to tide them through, to keep them together until their quest was complete. It was not, however, designed to survive.

He could blame Leliana, her tales of storybook romances filling his head with unrealistic expectations, but it had been himself who had requested such stories, to bide their time on the road.

He could blame Morrigan, and her poisonous proposition on the eve of their final confrontation with the archdemon, but it had been himself who had eventually agreed to lay with the witch.

He could blame Amell, for letting their love die, but it had been himself who had stayed, trying to spare the little mage the pain of breaking up.

So he kept all blame for himself. For his stupid belief that he could pretend everything would work out. For his cowardice in lingering, when it was clear whatever had existed between himself and the mage had long since withered. For continuing to share her bed, even when their joinings were unsatisfying, an almost routine act, driven more out of habit than desire. For inviting Zevran so frequently, wishing that the assassin would finally succeed in tempting Amell astray, purely because he would then have reason to hate her, to break the bonds of their relationship. For letting the years tick by, and allowing the fire that had once blazed within Amell flicker and fade as she watched her life past her by. For trapping the mage in his own twisted fantasy, unable to bring himself to admit that it was over.

The rose, through surviving a blight and being dragged across uncountable miles, had long ago succumbed to time. He remembered Amell's face as she held the crumbling petals, watching the token of their relationship fall apart in her hands. Sadness, but not surprise, shone through her eyes. Sighing softly, she had cast the dust into the fireplace.

Before her own fire burned out completely, he knew that he had to release her.

She was in the library, reading. Once, she had written her own books, long detailed texts on the nature of magic and her discoveries in battle, so that her lessons might be passed on to other magi. Little by little, her quill had stilled as she succumbed to Alistair's dreams of a peaceful life, a small homestead, far from the political turmoil and dangers of the cities. She had been reluctant at first, but he had pleaded with her. He had been selfish, and had told her that she was all he had left, that she was his family and his love and his all. Now, finally, he would end his possession of her.

"Amell? Amell, might we talk?"

Amell looked up from her book, and placed a frayed feather as a bookmarker between the pages. He sat, heavily, into the neighbouring chair.

"Do you remember, back when we first met, and would spend hours by the campfire, talking about what we would do once the archdemon was defeated?"

A small nod, brows gathered together as Amell tried to figure out what had brought on this conversation. Probably a clumsy excuse to invite Zevran round yet again, seeking to rekindle the companionship of old.

Alistair had long since grown used to Amell's silences, and no longer feared he had caused offence when she did not answer. His own idiosyncrasy for words compensated the mage's quiet manner, and they used to have long discussions where she would barely say anything.

"We had crazy notions of never again setting foot outside with the mud and the insects, having vast feasts laid out for us, rather than boiled-to-death-stew... Never having to lift a weapon, or clean blood from clothes... Of having a grand carnage, pulled by fifteen horses, so that you never had to walk anywhere again, and another fifteen to carry our armor and packs."

Alistair chuckled softly, and put on his best Antivan drawl, "Hiring out the entirety of the most expensive brothel and being serviced by Antiva's finest."

Recalling Zevran's heartfelt proclamation, complete with sordid details, made Amell break into a smile.

"Drinkin' Tapster's dry!" she said, her soft voice not quiet capturing Oghren's loud coarseness. Alistair nodded, encouraging.

"Hot baths, without having to worry about Antivan assassins sneaking a peep." a mockery of Wynne's endless complaints about Zevran brought them both out in wide grins.

She smiled, and tipped her head to the side, and placed a hand upon Alistair's. Taking a deep breath, he covered Amell's hand in his own.

"To see the big wide world, without having a darkspawn army dogging our steps. To feel the Antivan sun, and the hear the music of Orlias." he said, wistful but for for the distant lands.

Frowning again, and her voice bare above a whisper, "You wish to travel?"

"No... but you did, once upon a time." he replied, his own words quieted as he forced himself to speak them. " The little house tucked away in the countryside, where there would be no more fighting... Spending every waking moment with a pretty girl. That was all I ever wanted, and you gave me that, my dear Amell. It is time you granted your own wishes."

Confusion marred her face, as she struggled to understand. Alistair had always been protective to the point of smothering, not even allowing her to go out to the markets alone, in case of assassination, or bandits, or overenthusiastic templars, or one of any number of terrible fates waiting for her without him to prevent them. She had resigned herself, seeing that he was genuinely concerned for her, and unable to bring herself to refuse those gentle brown eyes. She shot him a questioning look, and saw his jaw tighten.

He'd thought of lying to her, pretending that his calling was upon him, or that queen Anora had summoned him. However, it was time for the truth.

"I think it is time for us to part ways. You have stayed here, with me, and I am grateful for every single day... but... It just isn't..." his voice faltered, unable to bring himself to say that he did not love her any more. Knights did not say such things.

Amell drew her hand back, sliding it from Alistair's grip. She brought it up, pale, slender fingers ghosting against his cheek as she cupped the templar's face.

"Thank you." she said, simply. She could have shouted, or wept, or argued, or struck out at him, but she knew that such actions would do no good. She did not hate Alistair, her sweet, gentle templar, but she had known her heart no longer belonged to him. She had waited, patient, at times infuriated, for Alistair to come to a similar conclusion, hoping to save the man from heartbreak. Templars were dangerous creatures, when broken. Cullen had taught her that, and she did not wish to have to fight Alistair should he take it into his head that she was deserting him.

It had not been a terrible existence, living in peace with Alistair as company. Perhaps a little dull, but she did not want for anything. Her library was vast, her garden well tended but her mind slowly unraveling for lack of purpose. There was a slight tang of bitterness that Alistair had taken so long to come to terms with the fact that their love was a dead thing, dissolved to dust like the rose.

Alistair looked at the mage, and saw a spark light up her eyes. He had wanted to protect that spark, that burning passion that her small body seemed hardly able to contain. To keep it safe, to keep it for himself. Seeing it again, beauty filling her face as she found freedom, he could not help but pull her into a kiss.

His lips pushed hers apart, moaning into her mouth as his hands curled to claws against her dress. As he delved deep into her, tongue sweeping over her, eyes closed so he did not have to see her struggle briefly, not convinced this was the best way to say goodbye. His fervour however, as he greedily gulped against her, undid her resolve and she found herself pressing into him, tilting them back into his chair. As she felt all the fear and hope and longing rise within her, she grasped at the back of his head, bringing up her skirt hem so she could sit in his lap. Breathlessly panting, he leaned back, watching as she trailed her fingertips round the neck of his shirt, her eyes dancing with inner fire as she tugged the fabric over his head.

He could have lifted her then, and taken her to their bed, but the moment held more passion than their simple mattress had ever witnessed. He had no wish to lay her down on the stale sheets, not when she was burning before him, upon him.

His hand rested around the curve of her hip, thumb running over the bone beneath. Dipping head, dark hair slipping to frame her face, Amell nuzzled the hollow of his collarbone. She stole a surprised gasp from him as teeth replaced lips, nibbling across shoulder, then neck, then up to his mouth. Fingernails scoring across his chest, and a quick succession of kisses and soft bites left him trembling, as the mage dragged a single fingertip downwards. Amell smiled, as ever needing no words when her actions were clear enough, and hooked his trousers and tugged. Lacing fell away under her will, and Alistair had to plant both feet solidly on the ground, and hands on the chair to lift both his hips and her upwards. She pushed his trousers and small clothes down, letting them collect around his calves, and started to undo the ties on her own skirt. Hands behind her working at the fastenings, she pressed herself into his body, feeling the heat even through her clothes.

Layers of skirt slipped from her, shortly followed by the loose blouse. Radiant, eyes fired to dark intensity, she clung to his thighs with her hips, her sex hovering over his own erection. He could feel her dig into the skin over each shoulder, as she rocked softly, tantalisingly, over the head of his manhood, wetness and heat just touching and no more. He gave a low growl, and gathered one of her breasts into her hand, kneading until her eyes fixed upon his. She stared at him, and sank down.

He broke their gaze, head lolling back as she engulfed him, slick muscles tightly sliding down until her hips bumped against his. A small noise, half a whimper, half a sigh escaped her lips and he groaned as she pressed their lips together in another passionate kiss, her hips rolling as she moved forwards.

He was lost, as she started to shift herself up and down, slow and deliberate, savouring the way he filled her with each downwards motion. Her mouth broke from his as she struggled to draw breath, her heaving chest before him. His hands clamped on her hips, gripping and leaving marks on her flesh as he urged her on. She fought against him, keeping her pace despite his pleas and eager hands.

"Amell, please Amell... I cannot hold on much longer..." he gasped, her tight embrace and the sight of her moving as if dancing upon his cock almost more than he could bare, knowing this would be the last time he would see her so close, so beautiful.

Twisting, almost writhing while he was inside, she shifted her weight to her knees, giving him space to move. Her eyes glistened as he started to thrust into her, pushing deep and hard. With a shuddering exhale, he released, and she cried out, clenching down on him, around him, wonderfully tight against him. Her fingernails drew red lines up the damp skin of his back and over his hammering heart and she slumped into his lap, curled against his chest.

"Alistair..." she breathed, and they were still, himself softening within her.

He felt her move off him, her absence marked by the cool air against his sweat-slicked skin, red lines stinging as salt touched upon the fingernail scores.

He almost tried to stop her, as she gave him one last lingering kiss to his cheek. She would not have tolerated further delay, he knew, and so he watched silently as she picked up her staff. Blowing to clear its coating of cobwebs and dust, she quietly and quickly dressed and gathered together a pack. He stood, his trousers pulled up again, trying to be stoic by the door as she gave him a last, grateful smile, then walked away. She was never one for long speeches, nor for trying to speak her feelings when emotion ran too strong for language. He found himself mute, uncharacteristically, perhaps following her example, knowing that was nothing he could say that would halt her footfalls, fading into the distance.

No more words, they would serve no purpose. He would be happy, eventually, his regret lifted as he remembered the returning fire within his mage. He had finally released her, and his guilt, like fingernail marks, would fade in time.

note, lyrics to fairytale gone bad:

This is the end you know

Lady, the plans we had went all wrong

We ain't nothing but fight and shout and tears

We got to a point I can't stand

I've had it to the limit; I can't be your man

I ain't more than a minute away from walking

We can't cry the pain away

We can't find a need to stay

I slowly realized there's nothing on our side

Out of my life, Out of my mind

Out of the tears that we can't deny

We need to swallow all our pride

And leave this mess behind

Out of my head, Out of my bed

Out of the dreams we had, they're bad

Tell them it's me who made you sad

Tell them the fairytale gone bad


	14. under orders

the prompt:Rendon Howe likes to collect things, or specifically people. One part of his collection is Zev, who never became a Crow but instead became a whore and is now owned by Howe.

The Couslands are massacred and Howe has their daughter brought back to him for his 'entertainment'. See, Howe likes to watch (you can use any excuse, maybe he can't actually get it up anymore, or has an epically small cock), and he wants to watch Zevran do F!Cousland.

Would be grateful if both Zev and F!Cousland don't want to but don't have a choice, and Zev tries to make it not too terrible as he can tell that F!Cousland is a virgin or inexperienced (whichever is up to write!anon). Howe wants to see some knife play, because he's a sick man.

Bonus points if Howe has some noble buddies join him to watch the events (they can recognise F!Cousland but don't do anything about it due to fear/secretly liking seeing her get fucked.

the fill:

The elf had surprised him. A gift brought from one of his underlings travels, at first Rendon Howe had politely received the blonde elf, had a bare room set up among his other 'pets' and then forgotten about him.

Then, on a whim, he had brought the elf out, as a humiliation to the young woman who had been caught thieving from the pantry. The idea of debasing the woman before he cut off her hand by making her lay with a lowly knife-ear while being watched by her lord had pleased him, so, under armed guard, the whoreson elf was fetched.

Golden eyes burned, and Howe was stuck by the thought of quenching that fire. It took some time, and many threats from a particularly racist guardsman before he performed as Howe wished. The sight of bronzed flesh, slim and unmarred, succumbing to the basest of pleasures, even as he glared at Howe was divine. Soft low words, edged with accent, dictating what he was doing poured from the elf, making Howe's breath catch as he listened. The elf has seen the effect, and then continued, telling the woman how tight she was, how soft and how *wet*. Howe had felt himself react, in a way he had long since thought impossible. When the elf finished with the woman, both sweating and panting for breath on the floor, Howe himself was flushed. So lost in the joy of finding a new favourite, with such unexpected appeal, Howe forgot to order the woman's hand removed, instead ordering that the elf, Zevran, be moved to a much more comfortable room.

The elf was not grateful.

After the second attempt at escape, only marginally better than the first, which had seen him caught before he'd even left the wing of the estate, Rendon Howe paid a visit to Zevran.

His hands had been bound behind him, painfully so, by the way the elf bend forwards. He wore only simple trousers, but that was not unusual. There was a gash on the side of his head, where a guard had slammed a fist into him, when he had kicked and resisted recapture. Howe had been mildly amused to hear the reports of the elf trying to use a sword, swinging it wildly only for it to clatter harmlessly against armour. Still, such disobedience could not be permitted to continue.

He had entered without knocking. Narrowed eyes watched him, as he sat upon a simple chair by the side of the bed, hands folded under his chin.

"Now Zevran... I believe I warned you that should you try to escape again, there would be consequences..."

Zevran said nothing.

"Quiet now? That is a disappointment. I do so enjoy hearing you speak..."

"I find I have nothing to say to you..." He had not lost his accent, and there was a bite to his words. He would not insult Howe, not after the last time, where Howe had let the guard grab and twist his wrist so that it was bruised and swollen for days. It did sound like he very much wanted to though.

"Pity." Howe took a deep breath, calculating his next move. The elf had not be won over by gifts of wine, or a choice of bed partners (with Howe watching, naturally). Violence could be used to keep him in check, but Howe was wary that one day Zevran would figure out that he was too valuable a prize to be damaged extensively. No... some creativity would have to be applied here.

Howe reached over, and ran a single finger down Zevran's cheek, watching as the elf fought to not flinch at the touch. A slow thin smile crept across his face, as he hooked two fingers under Zevran's jaw, lifting his neck painfully upwards.

"Come with me, my pet. Your punishment awaits."

* * *

He knew he should count himself lucky. To find himself in the service of one of the Ferelden high lords, fed well and comfortably housed, he should bow and be thankful to Rendon Howe for such a life. Coming from a whorehouse, he did not mind his 'duties', could even found pleasure in the acts Howe had him perform. Being watched, commanded, these things held no horror for him, no, he simply did not like Howe.

That it had taken several weeks before he was addressed as anything but 'the elf' did not help, but even then, he could tolerate the slurs and being treated as little more than a dog. Actually, no, this was Ferelden, even the mabahri held more respect than he. That was the issue, that he was a possession, bought and sold at whim. His habit of speaking during sex, watching as his words causing deep blushes and deeper effect had gained him some form of favouritism... for now.

He had thought about making another dash for freedom, but his head still ached, and his hands bound still, he decided he would face whatever 'punishment' Howe had planned, and bide his time till a more promising opportunity arose. When he followed meekly into the room, and saw the table in the centre of the room, draped in leather straps, he felt a cold dread creep into his bones.

"Sit on the table." Howe said, and there was suddenly a guard behind him to block the doorway. He scanned the room, breathing rapid, feet fixed to the floor. Two other men were in the room, another guard and a unarmored mousey man, standing by Howe's usual ornate chair, positioned by the head of the table. The little man looked out of place, and nervous. He held onto a large leather pouch, and would not meet Zevran's eyes.

Eventually, Zevran took a shaky step forwards, and then another. He sat on the table, mouth too dry to ask what was going to happen. His hands were unbound, and a heavy hand on his shoulder pushed him down to lay upon the table. Straps were laid across his chest, and tightened, then he saw Howe and the small man approach. Howe looked deep in thought.

"His face perhaps, across the cheek like a dwarf... To let everyone know that he is mine. What do you think...?"

"The face can be painful m'lord."

"Good. Proceed."

When he saw the man pull a long needle from the pouch, and move towards his face with it, Zevran started to twist on the table. One guard held his head while the other took a strap and placed it over his forehead, binding him to the table. The little man paled as he dipped the needle into a pot of ink and then started to prick a line under his eye.

It hurt, but not as much as the realisation that he was being marked, branded as nothing more than Howe's pet elf. He knew Howe was watching, rapt as the ink was applied into a dark swirl, a stylish 'H' sweeping over the tan skin of Zevran's left cheek. He stopped struggling, and let the man finish. When it was done, he wiped his face with a wet cloth, and stepped back to let Howe observe his work.

"Nice... Very nice..." Howe stroked his cheek, his fingers coming away bloody. The man breathed an audible sigh of relief, and started to pack the little pots and needles away. Howe turned, ignoring Zevran staring up at him, hatred burning in his eyes.

"You are not finished yet." he said, quietly, and moved out of Zevran's line of sight. Zevran felt his trousers being pulled down, and more straps fixed to hold each leg down. He felt a hand on him, running down till it came to rest upon his member.

"Here as well. Something simple, a circle, I think."

"No! Please! ... No..." Zevran started to pull against the bindings, fear and anger blazing inside him. No-one listened. As needle stabbed repeatedly into tender flesh, he felt tears welling up, the saltwater stinging his cheek as he wept, all the time crying out, pleading, begging for the pain to stop.

His throat was raw when the man was finally permitted to pack his things and scurry away. Still on the table, drained and defeated, Zevran coldly observed Howe walk around, and say simply; "Mine."

* * *

Howe congratulated himself. Not only on having patience enough for the tattoos to heal, but also on the effect on the elf. Obedient, and resigned, and no less beautiful as he obeyed each of Howe's increasingly perverse demands. Ladies, and men as well, all conquered by the golden elf, the black of the ink on his flesh striking. He would use candles, and the blade of a dagger, and a burning brand at Howe's was fire in those eyes still, but fear and acknowledgement had tempered it, it burned quiet and controlled now.

Howe himself would not lay with the elf, he could not bring himself to rut with the lower creature. Seeing him brought pleasure though, even if his position barred him from ever taking his release anywhere other than his private bedchambers. Most nights, he would watch Zevran perform, the elf's sexual stamina splendid, and one occasion he would allow under of the nobles under him to join him. There was power in that, too.

Howe was not stupid, he kept an armed guard with him at all times, and did not allow the elf to walk unescorted. His door was locked, always. Zevran seemed to accept this, and had not made another attempt to escape. It had been made clear than the next attempt would see a hobbling block put to use. This seemed to deter any notions of freedom, and Zevran continued to be called upon more than any of Howe's other pets.

He had already decided that the elf would bed the young Cousland girl, as soon as he finalised the plans for the massacre. Then he'd let his guards take their turn, but Zevran would have the first honour. Licking his lips, he set out for house Cousland.

* * *

Zevran was seated beside Howe. His chair was not as grand, and he knew he would not sit there long, but his continued 'good behaviour' had earned him this token of status. The guards knew he was Howe's favourite, and acted accordingly, moving to let him past when he walked, keeping their tongues civil. Such was the way things were now. Weeks had slowly become months, and he could feel the fight leaving him, bowing to Howe's will instead of keeping his own.

There was another noble in the room, standing on Howe's other side, dressed well. Zevran had seen this man before, he often was invited to join Howe in watching Zevran. That he was not offered a chair amused Zevran.

Howe seemed in a particularly good mood, and his smile was smug. He had not yet told Zevran what, or more likely, who this 'surprise' was, but Zevran noted coldly that there was already a selection of knives laid out. When two guards brought in the redhead, one already bleeding from the lip and the other holding a handful of hair as well as being careful to keep out of biting range, Zevran raised a brow at Howe.

"Elissa Cousland... Welcome." Howe's words made the other noble turn sharply, mouth open in what looked like aghast.

"Your family are dead, your house now mine." still talking to the redhead, but also answering the nobleman's unspoken questions, Howe's words seemed to at the same time reassure the nobleman, while enraging the woman. She was dressed in bloodied clothes, that looked like they might have one day been expensive. She screamed, spat and snarled, feral and wild, and Zevran wondered at the spirit the woman showed. Some part of him was sadly envious.

"Zevran, my pet, I have decided that you will fuck her, before I send her to the barracks. Bare in mind she is my enemy, and spare her not." Her head snapped from Howe's to meet his, to see what manner of man would carry out such an order. There was blood in her hair, and her eyes were dark and scrunched into a tight knot of hate. She was beautiful, and she was going to die. If not physically, then her mind would surely perish. Zevran had seen the evil Howe was capable of, and knew that no matter how strong, how valiant this woman was, she could not hope to hold out against him.

He stood, his bare chest rising slow and steady, trying to hide his hammering heart. He did not want to be part of this, did not want to be part reasonable for breaking of this woman. Elissa pushed forwards, despite two guards holding her, and gnashed her teeth at Zervan's face, daring him to try and continue. Zevran made an exaggerated sigh, and turned to Howe.

"This will be difficult. I think I'd be better off trying to bed a rabid wolf..." then, to one of the guards, "Bind her hands infront of her, if you would be so kind."

The guard faltered, and hung his head. "I have no rope..."

Zevran sighed again, and took the cord from his trousers, paying no heed that they now sagged, and looked likely to fall at any moment. He tossed it to the guard and crossed his arms. His look of irritation at the guard's lack of forethought hid his quiet hope of the plan that was forming in his head. Both guards had to hold her, as she tossed her entire body from side to side, but her hands were bound. Her words were furious, and almost intelligible, and when she twisted to see Zevran, she saw he had already selected a dagger from the bench, and walked towards her. She stilled in shock as he ran the edge of the blade down her chest, over a breast.

"That is better... Now, be a good girl while I cut off these rags." She was about to make another move to fight back, but Zevran let the blade dig in to the soft skin, more than he had intended, and they both saw the fresh blood. She fumed, but bore the sensation of being stripped, Zevran clumsily hacking at her clothes until she was naked. He stepped back, and was pleased to see that she was watching him intently, her focus on glaring rather than struggling with the guards. It made the next part easier.

"Let her go. I think I can handle her from here."

He could not have planned it better. The second one of the guards had released her hair, she swung round, forehead connecting solidly with his nose. The other jumped back and Zevran bore the dagger again, bringing it to her neck and holding it there, one leg between hers, keeping her off balance, and his hand on her hers, pulling back to control her. He looked at the guards, one holding his face, blood seeping from between his fingers.

"You. Best get yourself sorted. You there, go and guard Howe, in case this little bitch tries anything further." The guards turned to Howe for confirmation, who nodded, more intend on watching Zevran struggle with the Cousland. In the end, he had to kick the back of her knees, causing her to fall forwards with a crack against the floor. He calmly observed the room. Besides himself and Elissa, there was one guard, one nobleman, and Rendon Howe. All armed, and he knew the guard and Howe could fight better than he ever could. He wished he had time, or privacy, to whisper his plan to Elissa, who had gotten over the sharp pain of knees connecting with stone, and had begun to writhe again, hissing that he was a dead elf. He had been right, this *was* going to be difficult.

"You dance so, I can hardly wait to see you in the throes of ecstasy, as I fuck you deep, and hard." He caught the look, the fear, and knew with gathering dread that he would find a complete maidenhead between her legs. A better man would have stopped there, stood up and let Howe punishment him for disobeying. A more skilled man might have been able to fight, to somehow use the dagger to slay the foes and save the damsel. A wiser man might have managed to think of a different plan, one that would save Elissa from such violation. But he was just himself, the son of a whore, and sex was the one weapon that he had. So that was what he would use.

Howe had the familiar look of arousal, and the nobleman seemed to be losing the battle between his unease at the target of the evening's entertainment and unbridled lust. The guard had too much armour to tell, but Zevran was fairly sure that the slight uncomfortable shuffle from foot to foot was result of the panting creature on the floor, the elf upon her stroking across her hip slowly. He took a deep breath, and rested the dagger on her shoulder, letting the weight of it touch her collarbone. The other hand ran up the shivered skin of her back and into her hair. Using as little force as he could, he brought her up to her knees, hands in front, facing Howe. He had to use the dagger to warn against any further struggling. He looked over her shoulder, and forced a smile at the man.

"Shall i cut her for you? *Mark* her?" the words tasted foul on his tongue, but he knew from the past that both Howe and the nobleman shared a strong longing to see pain, to see blood. He suspected the guard would also react well, given the way he had brought Elissa into the room, no sign of remorse or hesitation in his actions.

"Yes." Howe's voice was soft, his breath quick and shallow.

Zevran pulled at her hair, and pressed his lips to Elissa's shoulder and neck, kissing lightly, feeling her pulse quicken as he brought the dagger up. He swallowed hard, and then, quick as he was able, cut a horizontal line across her cheek. It was as light as he could manage, but the blood still gathered and dripped down her face. The next cut was down a breast, stopping short of her exposed nipple. She was breathing through bared teeth again, and he dared not loosen his grip of her hair lest she attack and earn herself the guard holding her once more.

He left the dagger, held against her breast, and stretched round to lay a kiss upon her lips. It was gentle, and he hoped somehow it might convey his plan, his sorrow and his guilt. Elissa's eyes flared and he only just managed to move back as her teeth flashed and snapped. He fisted his hand, drawing her head back to a painful angle. She coughed, struggling to breath.

"Now now, little one. *Behave*..."

Normally, he was instructed to lay each knife back upon the bench. Howe was careful not to leave weapons in the hands of his pets, no matter how poor they were with a dagger. Zevran carefully looked at Howe, and placed the dagger down by his own knee, and then quickly used his now free hand to trail lines of red in the blood across Elissa's chest. The sight overrode his usual insistence on returning blades, and Howe watched transfixed as curls of blood were drawn over the breasts and belly of the redhead, before slipping down between her legs.

"My, you are so soft down here." Fingers stroking against the hair, willing her to bare with him for just a little while longer. He felt her body tense, and she somehow managed to growl a new series of threat and insults, even with her head pulled back so far back. He had to twist his body, so that he could reach, and he could not deny that the feeling of moisture on his fingers, the way Elissa trembled as he let a finger slip a little deeper had an effect on him. His cock stiffened, and he felt Elissa cringe away from the heated bulge.

"Hmmm," he breathed aloud, "So soft. Like silk... Hot, sweet silk..." He could see Howe becoming impatient, irritated at the gentleness Zevran was showing. He looked up, and smiled softly at the nobleman, sliding his fingers out and touching them to the tip of his tongue.

"How.. how does she taste?" the nobleman managed to stutter out, and Zevran watched Howe bite back a demand to ravage the woman in front of him, in favour of hearing his reply.

"Like brandy, hot and heated, warming, smooth and sharp, all at once..." over poetic perhaps, but Zevran could not well say she tasted of salt and guilt. The guard made a small choked noise, and Zevran flicked his fingers to his chair, a knowing grin flashing teeth.

"I shall not be using that chair for a long, long time. You are free to take the weight off your feet ser guard." The guard almost moved before waiting for Howe's nod, then sat gracelessly in the chair, shuffling until his armour was not quite so tight across his groin.

Elissa bucked under him, trying to shift the weight of the elf from her back. He saw water drip from her face onto the floor between her bound hands, and knew she was weeping. Partly to save himself from seeing her tears, partly because he could feel himself growing increasingly unsure at his true intention, Zevran moved behind her, shucking his trousers off his hips and kicking them across the floor. He arranged himself, his knees inside hers, pushing her legs open.

"I am going to fuck you now, my little one. As I do, I want you to look at Rendon Howe. Let him see you twist and writhe as my cock claims you."

She made a noise, a low keening wail as he entered her, slowly. He tried to work carefully, his thrusts measured to break her maidenhead as gently as he was able. Elissa however, fought against him, trying to pull away, trying to beat her body back at him. He felt it when something deep inside gave way, and she clenched in pain and shock. He rocked inside her, hoping to ease the sensation away in favour of more pleasurable ones. The feeling of tight, trembling flesh against his cock, especially the sensitive skin under the black inked circle that wrapped round the thickest part, fired his lust. She moaned, and the three men in front of them all breathed deep. Zevran knew that he should be speaking, but could find no words to describe her, how her back arched into his chest, how her soft whimpers fanned his desire. How, even as she was taken, she was beautiful. His hips started to push forwards, a hand on her hip steading her, stroking across the bone as he pounded deep into her. His control, careful and calculated, started to fade as his body drove towards his release. He chanced a glance up, and saw the guard's face a deep embarrassed crimson, while Howe's was set into a cruel smile at the sight before him. He paid no heed to the elf, instead watching as Elissa's face reflected every single thrust as she grew closer to orgasm.

His seed spurted from him, and he slumped forwards, over her back, his hand sliding from her hip to the floor. He slowly clenched his hand around the handle of the dagger, and in a quick movement, forced it down between her hands, cutting the cord. Rope he would not have had the strength to sever, but the cord was thin and gave way with a click as the blade hit the stone under it. He pushed the hilt into Elissa's hand, trusting that the fierceness he saw within her heralded more talent with a blade than he was capable of, and stood, feet shaking with the effort of moving so soon after ejaculation.

He launched himself at the guard, trapping him in the chair, and did not see Elissa throw the dagger, eyes never leaving Howe's.

The guard also did not see Elissa's sudden movement, attention completely fixated on the elf. He had been told, over and over that the elf was not to be damaged, and those instructions halted his usual response to beat the elf from him. His arms were trapped, and a knee was pressed firmly between his legs. Then he heard a gurgle from the Howe, and saw a splatter of blood.

Elissa was on her feet, and had tried to take Howe's sword, but quickly found the blade to be nothing more than a ornamental status symbol, so instead yanked the dagger from where it had buried into Howe's throat. She was driving the weapon into the nobleman's back, as he turned to run for the door, and, satisfied that he would not raise the alarm as he twitched and died, turned to where Zevran and the guard were tangled.

The guard was stronger than he, and knew better hold to fight, and Zevran was soon overpowered and his neck held in a vicelike grip. His vision hazed, and then cleared as the fingers clenched his windpipe loosened. He saw the guard slump, a dagger in his eye, and turned to see Elissa, bloodied and triumphant, standing before him. She collected the dagger again, and held it between them, eyeing the elf like a cornered animal.

Zevran let his eyes close, and half expected to feel a sharp stab of metal as Elissa claimed her revenge. He would not have blamed her if she chose to, but no bite of steel came. When he carefully half opened one eye, he saw the woman wrestling armour from the guard and strapping them to herself. She was focused on her task, and paid the elf in the room no heed until she had some semblance of protection covering herself. While left to stand there, mute and uncertain, Zevran gathered his trousers, and then, standing over Howe's limp body, spat at his former master. Once she was satisfied that the straps would hold for a while at least, she started to walk to the door, her footfalls heavy but sure. She turned then, and quirked her head in the direction of the exit.

"Come on then." she said, voice commanding. Zevran followed, the weight of servitude lifting from his shoulders, and the cold air beyond the door tasting like freedom.


	15. Left in his Wake

prompt: taliesen/m!warden

The first thing he thought, as he saw the shadow creep in through the window, was that he should have let Zevran kill Taliesen when they had had the chance. The second thing, as he gathered his sword from beside his bed and swung it at the dark haired assassin, was that this would be a poor way to die, after fighting off hoards of darkspawn, werewolves and even an archdemon.

"Wait!" hissed the crow, as he ducked to avoid the blade, and holding out his hands to show he had no daggers in them. Theron pulled the sword back with effort, and held it in front of him, as a warning while Taliesen picked himself up from the floor.

"OK... perhaps not my best idea yet, sneaking in without warning you beforehand, but you'll understand that I have to keep a low profile. My apologises for disturbing you in the night, but I have a message for Zevran."

"For Zevran?" Theron outwardly did not react to the name, but inside he flinched, recoiling from the angry wound the assassin had left when he had walked away, his duty apparently 'fulfilled'.

"Can't find him, and that's probably for the best, but I know you two were close. Can you tell him that the crows have released a new contract upon him. Good price, it will tempt people who should know better, so Zevran had best be careful."

"I do not know where Zevran is, so you are out of luck trying to claim the reward."

Taliesen frowned, and straightened. He gave a brisk shake of his head. "No... I took the chance you offered and left the crows. They think me dead, hence trying not to draw attention to myself. I have no intention to harm Zevran. Or yourself, if you could extent such trust to an assassin."

When they had met and bested him on the steps of some Denerim backstreet, Theron had been forced to physically stop Zevran from plunging a dagger into Taliesen. He had seen that Taliesen and his Antivan assassin had a past, and wanted to save Zevran from adding another friend to the list of dead he carried over his heart. After a hissed conversation, Zevran had declared him as crazy as Lelianna, Lelianna accused Zevran of being mean and Theron threatened to feed the pair of them to the Archdemon. Theron had bent down and spoke to Taliesen, explaining that he need not die in a strange land. Theron and Zevran were going to end the blight, hardly a low profile activity, and so if Taliesen wished, they would let him leave, and the crows would assume him dead through the fact both Zevran and Theron were still alive. Lelianna even offered to compose a ballad commemorating the death of the crow assassins. Zevran stood, watching Taliesen with distrust and a scowl.

Taliesen had said yes, and true to his word he had disappeared and not bothered either Zevran or Theron... until now.

Theron rubbed his eyes, and sat down on the bed, sword still in hand but resting by his side. He gestured to a table and chair against the wall, and Taliesen sat.  
"I remain grateful for your goodwill, and do not wish to pry... but... Zevran. Did he survive the blight? The songs composed fail to mention him." There was trepidation in his voice, as if he feared the answer.

"Our bard did so on my bequest. It was too painful to have him sung about, not when every celebration felt the need to sing high praises about the bloody battle. Zevran... he was alive, last I saw him. That was over three months though, and who knows where he has got to since then. He left after the archdemon fell, and I have not seen nor heard from him since."

Taliesen shook his head, and gave Theron a genuine sympathic smile. "That is his way... " he said sadly. "I am not sure if this is appropriate for me to say, but he will not come back. He will find some new place to inhabit, flirt wildly with the local populace, then take to his heels if anyone attempts intimacy. He is an infuriation."  
"You and Zevran...?" Theron quickly moved the conversation onwards, he could not think of never seeing the Antivan elf again, not when he was just begining to be able to sleep without tossing and turning over the absence of Zevran's warm body beside him.

Taliesen gave a small sad smile, and nodded, settling himself comfortably in the chair, "He had always treated the nights we spent together as nothing more than stress relieve between two friends, but after a year I think it surpassed that, without Zevran even noticing. I loved him, as much as you can love someone so scared of emotion. Never told him, knew it would do absolutely no good. I was content to just be near, to be able to be there for him. I was even prepared to be there while he tried to figure out how he felt about Rinna. More often than not, he'd come and sleep with me, simply so he could prove that he did not love her."

Theron gave a sigh, and put the sword down. something like relief washed over him. He had often thought that if he had just spent more time with Zevran, if he had not been quite so distracted by the oncoming blight, he might have been able to touch the assassin's heart. The idea that there could have been *something* he could have done to convince Zevran to stay had gnawed at his mind and his sleep in the last months. Seeing Taliesen sitting there, the same dejected look on his face, made him realise that it fault might be with Zevran, and that there might not have been anything either could have done to mend his broken views on love.

"Perhaps it is for the best he left? I know it seems a strange thing to say, but Zevran, his instinct is to kill anything that gets too close. He was maybe trying not to repeat the same mistake he made with Rinna."

"You are right, it is a strange thing to say."

Taliesen laughed, "I suppose it is. If someone had said the same to me when he disappeared to Ferelden without so much as a word of goodbye, I would have thought them quite mad. And then probably punched them. I am glad you have a better temper."

Theron gave a brief chuckle, then frowned. Zevran had left him a mess, it had taken both Wynn's nagging and Lelianna's constant pestered to get him to start eating again when it became apparent that the assassin would not return. He had thrown things at both women when they pushed too hard upon painful wounds, luckily missing, but earning him a wide berth from every member of staff. He did not attend the many balls and galas thrown in his honour, nor did he answer any of Anora's increasing verbose letters regarding his plans to deal with the scattering hoards of darkspawn, fleeing through the countryside. It had hurt too much, to think of trying to move on without Zevran's presence, but it hurt more to think that Zevran had probably already found solace in a new bed partner... or four.

Taliesen appeared to have have found a life after Zev, and though sad seemed to be surviving. A single question still pulled at Theron's mind however.  
"If you cared so much for Zevran, why did you agree to leave when we met in Denerim?" He kept accusation from his voice, feeling nothing but a strange empathy with the assassin.

"He looked happy with you... I did not want to interfere. I had hoped that he might have found someone he learn to trust, rather than running the second it got too intense. Should it count for anything, I am sorry it did not work out. For Zevran and for you."

They looked at each other. Theron was struck at how much like Zevran Taliesen moved, smooth as a cast shadow, two silver daggers dealing death in the night. Taliesen noted the grace Theron possessed, and the way he wore his brown hair in a braid to keep loose strands from his face, showing no shame in displaying his elven ears. The same thought flashed through each of their heads, and it was Theron who first reacted.

"I am sorry too, but I bare more regret that I could not say goodbye properly... You, also, received no closure..." his voice was softer, watching to see how Taliesen would respond, his tone of intent clear.

Taliesen was surprised, that the great hero of Ferelden could seem so vulnerable, and that the warrior of such renown could be suggesting such a thing. To each pretend that the other was Zevran, to gain some sort of final release, that each might be able to do the things they longed for. He could not pretend that the notion did not intrigue him, the way that Theron's eyes smoldered reminding him far too clearly of an Antivan assassin who could reduce him to shivers merely by such a stare.

"Tsk tsk, and I am not even drunk yet..." Taliesen said softly, playing up the Antivan accent, and they both grinned at the words.

Taliesen rose, stalking towards Theron as he had known Zevran to. The effect of light leathers being striped from skin as he walked was instant, and Theron could almost picture Zevran's golden eyes, fierce and fiery, gazing into his as Taliesen closed the distance between them. He grasped at the mirage, pulled Taliesen into a passionate kiss, desperate to feel Zevran's soft lips upon his.

Taliesen's lips were not soft, they were rough, and not as pliant. In the same instant, Taliesen found Theron to be a little too heavily built, arms too strong as they pulled him in. Both were aroused, but neither could easily maintain this charade. Whether it was the fact that Taliesen was actually rather attractive, all confident smooth motions, or that Theron had such a grip upon his hips, it did not seem to matter.

Another kiss, not so demanding, instead tasting the man underneath, exploring his mouth as one would a new lover. Theron moaned softly into Taliesen's mouth as his tongue brushed against bottom lip. The human hissed as a hand reached down to cusp the straining fabric of his crotch, and drove forwards, pushing Theron to lay on the bed under him as he undid his trousers. Theron, only dressed for sleep, easily lifted his nightshirt, revealing that he was not wearing anything under it.

Dark stubble scraped against his cheek as Taliesen greedily closed in on his neck, moving up in measured increments to his pointed ears. Teeth, biting almost to the point of pain, making him twist, and an exposed chest, uninked and with a fresh set of scars to learn, pushed all thoughts of Zevran from his mind as Theron clutched and clawed nails down Taliesen's back. Arching, pressing his hips uncomfortably close to the elf's, Taliesen gave an approving grumble. He thrust their erections together, though cloth still barred the sensation of flesh on flesh. This pulled a cry from Theron, who plunged his hands downwards to remedy the problem, yanking Taliesen's breeches down over the tight curve of his rear.

As he kicked off his trousers, the human bent to kiss the muscled bundles of Theron's board chest, teasing with tongue, then lips, then teeth as he moved down the bed, allowing Theron to settle himself more comfortably. With a hand Taliesen pried the elf's legs apart, exposing a stiffened member and the tight pucker of his entrance. He spat into his hand, wincing that he had not come more prepared, and carefully slicking it against the tight ring of flesh, encouraging Theron to relax, to allow his fingers to ease the muscles apart.

With a growl, Theron pressed himself down onto the fingers. It had been too long, much too long since he had felt this needful, and seeing Taliesen casting her eyes over his form, growing all the more prominent for the sight of the elf stretched before him, strummed a chord within him that he had denied himself since Zevran. Flesh enfolded over fingers, Taliesen struggled to find his breath, finally twisting his fingers sharply, finding the elf ready.

Theron rose, every inch the battle-wore warrior who had survived an archdemon, and with heavy hands upon tanned shoulder, pushed Taliesen backwards, his head hanging over the edge of the bed as he straddled the human assassin. He gave another low growl, and plunged himself downwards, feeling all the air escape his lungs as sensation took him. Thick, and trembling, Taliesen filled him deep, and Theron gasped a curse about humans and their size, before starting to draw himself upwards, the pressure subsiding but his need increasing. He gave Taliesen a lust filled look, which he met with equally driven eyes, and then started to pump himself down and upwards. Each downward stroke pushing deep and intense and only just on the pleasurable side of pain, each slap of backside on hips failing to drown out the low gasps from Taliesen and the rumble of a growl still reverberating in Theron's chest.

Hips started to surge from the mattress, thrusting into Theron to complete each downwards movement, Taliesen's vision starting to blur as he felt the elf heave and shudder over him. He used Theron's hips to match his rhythm, and finally felt himself release, heat coursing through him to fill Theron's tight passage.

Theron gave a cry, and he ejaculated high, pale splatters landing on the sheets and on the side of Taliesen's face. He willed himself to squeeze, causing Taliesen's eyes to flutter as he pulled himself from the human's manhood. He slumped, feeling all the tension slip from his body as it slowly recuperated.

It was a gentle hand that caught Taliesen's shoulder as the assassin got up to leave, not insistence but... hopeful. The human nodded, no words needed, and lay down in the space Theron offered, declining the blankets for the moment as he allowed the film of sweat to cool on his skin. Theron reflected, as he watched Taliesen fall into a light sleep, that it was good to have a warm body beside him to deter the cold of night, and any regrets it might try to bring.


	16. Dark Dealings

prompt: Hawke/ Fenris/ Danarius

Hawke is about to sell Fenris out to Danarius.

But before he does he, of course, wants a piece of that.

Danarius, despite not being the sharing type, obliges because it's too good of an opportunity to pass up - and he suspects that Fenris is in love with Hawke (which he is), and takes great pleasure in taunting and humiliating him over this, with Hawke present. Hawke really just does not care.

tweaked slightly,

non-con, bondage, physiological torture, dark themes. Blood mage m!Hawke/Fenris with voyeur!Danarius

Hawke's voice had carried clear and confident as he faced Danarius, Fenris tense and ready at his side. He had not hesitated as he agreed to hand the elf back to his former master, and took the payment without flicker of remorse, despite Fenris's pleas. An uncomfortable shock filled the inn, and Hawke had raised his head, challenging anyone to question his actions.

As Fenris's head dropped in defeat, and Danarius started to gather his assembled slaves and servants and leave the Hanged Man inn, Merrill gave a quiet whisper.

"Its one of those bluff things... Right? Hawke didn't really just do that..."

Varric avoided the elfen mage's eyes, his mind already fabricating Fenris's terrible betrayal. Perhaps the warrior would play traitor to both Hawke and his own believes, all for a pouch of coin, and forcing the great and noble Hawke to turn the tides and sell him out to the slavers as a fitting irony. It was not the first time the champion had sold out one of his followers, Isabella's cry of horror still echoing in the dwarf's nightmares even now. Varric managed the damage as best he could, his tales of heroics and bravery covering the acts of the Ferelden mage, no matter how cruel. Some of the time, he could even convince himself that the stories held some truth, and that Hawke was justified in murdering templars whenever the opportunity arose, or blackmailing anyone stupid enough to entrust their secrets to him. By comparison of the blood on the man's hands, Fenris's fate was hardly noteworthy at all. Still, Varric could not help but wonder which of Hawke's 'friends' would be next...

Two days later, and Hawke found a letter waiting for him on his desk. It was from Danarius.

Normally, he would have taken a couple of companions when going to meet a powerful magister, for safety's sake, but at present no-one would speak with him. Sebastian had been furious when he learnt what had happened to Fenris, and shouted verses at him, and Aveline had not at all appreciated the effort to avoid unnecessary bloodshed in the middle of such a public venue. Merrill had at last figured out that there was not grand plan to launch a rescue and so started to shy away from Hawke's house calls, and Varric had been uncharacteristically subdued on the matter. Even Anders, who had held no love for the escaped slave, seemed ill at ease with Hawke's decision to hand him over. They would come around eventually, they always did. It would however be a few more nights of rest before he felt strong enough to bleed enough for another set of mind-manipulating spells.

His hound, Lorol, fell in step behind him at he walked the streets of hightown, rather quiet now the most dangerous thing on the prowl was himself. Public opinion was divided as to whether or not this was an improvement.

There were guards outside the mansion, who nodded to Hawke as he approached. He was let in and noted that though Fenris had never bothered to clean the stolen home, Danarius had obviously set his workforce on making the place more presentable. Fires burned in the fireplaces, and lanterns were lit, and the normally chill air was warm and welcoming. A waiting area had been set up, with a crackling fire and table laid out with wine and glasses. Hawke sat, but declined the urge to drink what a magister might offer his guests.

To his credit, Danarius did not make Hawke wait long, walking up in trailing robes and smiling. He gave a nod of recognition, but did not bow, and as he had in the inn, Hawke could feel the power emanating from the other man. Lorol raised his head, observing quietly, ears pricked and ready for Hawke's command.

"A pleasure to see you again serah Hawke."

Hawke patted Lorol on the head, and the mhabri settled.

"Well met Danarius... I am unsure of your title beyond that of magister, how would you prefer to be addressed?"

Danarius contemplated briefly, scanning the eyes of the mage champion.

"I think Danarius will suffice, your power is at least equal to my own."

a small smirk touched Hawke's face, and he nodded with approval.

"Your letter... It intrigued me. I would like to help if I am able, but would learn more of the nature of the problem you'd like my assistance with."

Danarius looked slightly taken aback, then chuckled. "I forget sometimes that Fereldens waste no time in cutting to the heart of the matter. It is a refreshing way of conducting business, if somewhat brisk. The problem... It will probably be best if I show you."

"In that case, lead on..."

The halls which Danarius guided him through were familiar, but rather than cobwebs and mushrooms cluttering the flagstones, there were rugs and elegant furnishings. Hawke was impressed at the difference achieved in so little time. There were guards, well dressed and alert, spaced throughout the mansion but any other persons either were elsewhere, or hid from view as their master stalked the corridors. Hawke could feel binding and spells also, and demons waiting just beyond the veil, ready to be called forth to protect the house should need arise.

Two guards, one of which had a blackened eye, stood before a door to the side of Danarius's personal chambers. They stepped to the side and opened the door for the magister. Danarius did not move, but instead gestured Hawke enter first. Hawke stepped forwards, after telling Lorol to stay behind with the guards.

Inside, the room had not been cleaned. Dusty chests and chairs were stacked against walls, and the floor was filthy. And in the middle of the room, hands bound in shackles and hanging from a length of chain attached to the ceiling where a chandelier should have been, was Fenris.

His armour was bashed in places, and his chest piece and one of his bracers was missing. lyrium-laced arms strained under his weight, and his legs hung limp. There were bruises which marred his skin, and his bottom lip was swollen. He glanced up at the door, and his eyes widened. A small smile pulled at his mouth, despite the pain it must have caused to his lip.

"Hawke... You came back for me.. I *knew* you would come..." His dry whisper hushed to silence as Danarius followed in after Hawke, closing the door behind him with a careful hand. Confusion, and fear, played across eyes too tired to mask the emotions. Hawke smiled at Fenris's misunderstanding, and turned to Danarius. The magister pointedly ignored the elf in the room, and gave an exaggerated exasperated sigh.

"I should have not been surprised, but it appears Fenris has developed a rather undesirable desire to kill myself. I fear it shall take a while before I am able to beat it out of him. I think the process might be shortened if I can break his spirit down, and remind him of his place."

Hawke glanced to Fenris, who was breathing heavily through his nose, eyes fixed upon the mage who had handed him over to his former master.

"Would it not be easier to simply alter his memories, perhaps steal the last few years from him?"

Fenris jolted at those words, and shook his head, pleadingly.

"Perhaps. But as he tried to fight his way past my guards on his own, I did note that he has picked up some rather interesting new tricks. I would be loathe to have to wait for him to relearn them from the start should I wipe his mind..."

"So where do I come into this...? I have no skill at breaking in unruly slaves."

Danarius chuckled darkly, "Perhaps not, but I think you may be perfect for this particular case. Fenris warned me over and over that you would come for him, he seemed to think you might care enough to risk yourself for his rescue." there was a slight questioning tone, as Danarius eyed the champion of Kirkwall, watching for any sudden attempts at the heroic rescues he was so famous for.

Hawke laughed, "Whilst a summons from a magisrate is undoubtedly worth my time, he is not."

Fenris's head snapped to face Hawke then, shaking in his bonds. "no. You cannot tell me that all the time we spent together, travelling and fighting side by side, all the nights we would spent in each other company, the times you would listen and the times you would comfort, that they were all a lie... I refuse to believe that all your attentions were mere deception."

"Stupid creature, I was trying to bed you."

Fenris's mouth fell open, and Hawke turned away, to face Danarius. The tevntier magister looked from Fenris to Hawke, and a slow smirk claiming his lips.

"I think, Hawke, that my little Fenris is suffering from the misconception that you might have come to care for him... As he does for you. I cannot imagine him tolerating the company of a mage if he did not have feelings of some sort for you."

Hawke turned, and considered briefly, then, after checking for Danarius's permission, closed the gap between himself and the elf.

"Hawke... " Fenris managed to whisper as the mage lifted his chin to face him, a faint echo from a time where they would argue long into the night about the freedoms of mages and inherent evil of magic. More often than not, Fenris would storm out, or Hawke would declare the conversation over when it got too heated, but sometimes both men would stand against each other, hands raised as if reading for battle. Hawke would have put money down on the fact that these episodes inflamed the elf as much as they did him, but whilst his attraction was based in lust and desire, Fenris could have easily mistaken his attentions and flirtations as something approaching love.

"Is this true...?" Hawke stroked a gloved finger down one cheek, a parody of a more immediate gesture.

Fenris, torn between lashing out with his fading strength, and curling into the touch of the mage, tried to twist his head away. Hawke held firm, and tightened his fingers so that they squeezed against his throat.

"Say it.." He said, in a low menacing purr.

"Its true..." Fenris finally confessed, and closed his eyes so he did not have to see the malicious gleam in Hawke's eyes, nor Danarius's triumphant sneer. Hawke released him, Fenris swaying slightly in place as the chains held him up.

Danarius moved round the room, circling Fenris like a predator before going in for the kill. "you see little wolf, I know you better than you know yourself. I know what holds you together, and what you pull strength from. And I know how to break you." he stopped behind Fenris's bowed head, and looked to Hawke. "Hawke, it would please me if you would take your gratification from this sorry excuse for a slave."

the champion of Kirkwall crossed his arms, and raised a brow at Danarius. "not that I am not tempted by your offer, but I wonder what I might gain from this...service..."

"Ah, your reputation for hard bartering does not do you enough credit! If the favour of a magister alone does not suffice, then I have a collection of magical artefacts I'm sure you will find interesting. You may chose any one that takes your fancy, and if you ever should journey to tevinter, I will offer you my full hospitality."

"Agreed."

Fenris let out a heavy lungful of air, and bit back the urge to weep. That he had been betrayed once was bad enough, but to be betrayed a second time, for some mere trinket stung deep. He could not bring himself to open his eyes, but it made every touch he experienced intensified. He struggled weakly as Hawke brought an arm across his chest and pulled him backwards. He felt breath on his neck, as fingers dug into his shoulder, and Hawke's other hand run through his hair. A gloved hand skimmed over the edge of his ear, before fisting and grabbing the pale strands, forcing his head to the side. Hawke pressed lips and teeth against his neck, breathing deep the scent of lyrium-touched skin before closing his mouth down hard.

The elf bucked, pain and savagery compelling him to action. Both knees came up and kicked back with as much force as he could manage, but Hawke had been expecting attack, and easily sidestepped. Fenris felt the fist in his hair tighten, and heard a warning growl from behind.

gritting his teeth, Fenris tried again, this time aiming a single bare foot higher, kicking back and aiming for Hawke's crotch. He connected heavily with a thigh, just managing to block, jarring his leg. The mage behind him huffed out a breath, irritated at Fenris's attempts to resist, and there was a sharp slap as a hand landed heavily across his cheek.

There was a polite cough, and Fenris forced his eyes open to see Danarius, sitting opposite, head resting on bridged fingers. He had not left, and apparently planned to watch as Fenris was taken... It should not have surprised the slave, well versed in the depths of the magister's depravity, but the knowledge that Hawke would do such a thing, before an audience sickened him.

"I will remind you that you are dealing with my possession. I do not want to see him damaged... Too much."

"My apologises." Hawke murmured, directly to Danarius rather than the elf, whose lip bled.

He was well aware that the exchange had been entirely for his benefit, to hasten the 'breaking' of him, but it did not stop Fenris from having to surprise a shiver at the words.

Hawke had released him, and though he tried to turn to follow him as he paced the room, Hawke was too quick on his feet. Suddenly, there was a finger against his lip, coming away bloody. Hawke observed the redness, and grinned at Fenris.

"You know, I could use blood magic and make you enjoy this. Get inside your mind and make you want this..."

Hawke placed the finger in his mouth, slowly sucking it clean, and locked eyes with Fenris.

"But I will not. I think it shall be so much more satisfying to have you cry out in ecstasy without meddling. So you know that you were not strong enough to resist, that whatever pleasure you get is entirely your own..."

Over Hawke's shoulder, Fenris could see Danarius nodding in approval.

Armour, clothes and the last shreds of his dignity were stripped away, piece by piece, a dagger he'd often watch Hawke plunge into his own palm used to cut away what could not be unfastened. Also cast off were Hawke's runed gloves. Laid bare before his hated master, and a mage he could have loved, Fenris was distracted and did not see the tell-tale red mist heralding Hawke's magic.

Lightening buzzed through his body, a hand pressed between his shoulderblades, pushing him forwards till he was forced on tip-toe. A soft cry escaped him as the power increased till it felt like his skin was going to crackle. goosebumps trailed along his arms and legs, and as Hawke pulled his hand back, Fenris could feel his tattoos glow with the power.

Wet heat, as he felt a tongue trace a line down his back, and he squirmed from the sensation, every nerve sensitised by the magic. A hand, warmed against his flesh, ran over a hip and brushed down to his groin.

"And you say you hate magic... See how you react..." Hawke's voice put him in mind of a desire demons', all soft and lilting and dangerous. He knew his length was hardening, though he fought against it with his remaining strength. It was too much, Hawke touching him in ways he had only dreamt of before, the way slender fingers would trace along the lines of his tattoos, the breath coming heavy by his ear, the way Hawke would pull him close, in almost an embrace. Fenris rolled his head to look at Hawke, even as he arched as Hawke ran fingernails up and over his bare backside.

"Please Hawke... Stop... Please..."

He knew that laugh. It was the same laugh Hawke used when he was about to destroy a group of thieves but pretended he only wanted to talk, or when he was facing down templars he knew he would later massacre.

"And why would I stop, when we are just getting started?"

More lightening, lacing through his nerves, and then roaming hands, covering every inch of his skin. Grabbing hands, digging nails in, then at times tortuously gentle caresses. Fenris writhed under Hawke's assault.

"How does it feel little wolf, to have your would-be saviour turn on you? To have your trust so badly misplaced...?" Danarius was watching, rapt as Hawke brought Fenris's member to an almost painful hardness. As arousing as Fenris's lithe form could be, he was also pleasantly surprised at Hawke's devious cunning and taste for the task set to him. He sat back in his chair, and, after careful consideration, allowed himself to tend to his own erection.

Fenris could not answer Danarius, not with Hawke standing so close, eyes dragging across his naked body. The mage had moved to face the elf, running a single fingertip down his chest to the hardened flesh. His pupils were full and black, and he murmured to himself as Fenris tried to flinch from the touch.

"If he is no longer suitable as a bodyguard, he would make an excellent whore..." He commented over his shoulder to Danarius. When Hawke turned back to grin at Fenris, the warrior was ready.

He spat at the mage, snarling. The blood mage wiped the spittle from his cheek with a carefully measured gesture, then rolled a single finger in the fluid.

Fenris could not comprehend the action, not until felt a spit-slicked finger press against his rear. He twisted, arms aching from the effort of supporting his body, but Hawke held him firmly by one hip, the larger man's body covering his own.

Relaying on the chains to hold him, he kicked both legs. Thrashing desperately as the finger gained access, slowly sliding and curling, and stirring him with a heat Fenris could only grit his teeth against.

"Maker, you are *tight*. I am going to enjoy this..."

Fenris let his head drop, helpless, defeated, as Hawke undid his own robes behind him. He felt the heat against him, even as the finger slipped free. He moaned softly, as Hawke pushed inside, and it was pain and violation and good, and he could not help the fresh surge of blood rushing to his own member. He squeezed his eyes closed, as if that might block out Hawke's low grunts as he filled the elf, or Danarius's rapidly increasing pace on himself.

Hawke slide himself fully inside, so that Fenris could feel the curve of the mage's hips against him, the sharp flare of pain dulling to an ache as Hawke held him still, panting into his ear.

"Look up Fenris."

Fenris kept his eyes shut, and Hawke grunted. He felt a hand close in around his own cock, and winced at the tightness. Hawke moved his hand up and down the entire length, once, and against hissed into his ear, so close Fenris could feel the breath against his skin.

"Look at your master while I fuck you Fenris, or you will have no release."

he could not control both his eyes, and his hips from thrusting into Hawke's hand, and he shudder against the mage, the heat inside him almost burning, the hand around him too tight, too much. They might have stood there for seconds, maybe minutes, but finally, Fenris, through eyes that held a watery sheen, looked at Danarius.

The sight of the elf submitting, even as anger and hate burned bright in his eyes, was delicious, and Danarius drank in Fenris's defeat. He sped up his ministrations on himself, watching as Hawke started a slow rhythm of pushing into the elf. The mages fingers matched his movement, and soon Fenris was jerking, a low cry filling the room as Hawke drove deep and hard with every thrust.

His little wolf, being taken by a blood mage, hating every second yet unable to stop his body from reacting, it was perfect.

Hawke, dark hair dampened by sweat, eyes barely able to focus, hands grasping at the body in front of him, was nearing the end of his control, and Danarius watched as the pace started to become hard and frantic, Fenris practically screaming as Hawke plunged deep inside him. It hurt, he could see the pain in the open gasp of Fenris's mouth, in the way his legs flailed against the floor, toes clawing at the stone below. Hawke's hand pumped mercilessly, demanding Fenris's inevitable release, no care or gentleness in bringing the slave to climax.

Fenris spurted and slumped, even as Hawke continued to his on gratification. Danarius saw Fenris's shocked look of horror at himself, and came undone, followed by Hawke.

Heavy breathing filled the air, and Fenris trembled as Hawke pulled himself free, using the cast off clothes to clean himself.

He turned to look at the elf, and smirked.

"One last thing Fenris. No-one is coming to save you. No-one cares."

He gave a nod to Danarius, then left, whistling for his hound to follow after as he left. Both guards checked to make sure their master was unharmed, and Danarius waved them off angrily. He looked at Fenris, now too tired, too dejected to even try and glare definitely. Hawke's seed dipped from him, glistening in the dim candlelight.

Some part of him was delighted at the outcome, better than he had dared hope for. Yet some part of him was bitter that Hawke, in the space of a mere evening, had broken his little wolf more efficiently and more completely than he could ever manage. There was talent there, and power, so much power it made him giddy at the possibilities.

Slowly, shakily from his own exertions, he rose to his feet. Careful not to put himself at risk, though he doubted Fenris had strength left in him to try and attack, he collected Hawke's spent seed from where it dribbled on the lyrium-marked thigh. Thoughtful, he licked at it, and wondered when he could next write to the champion of Kirkwall.


	17. Blunt

warning: m/m, master/slave roleplay. written for the kinkmeme, prompt at the end of the piece.

Hawke had a habit of approaching every problem as if he could beat it down with that massive sword of his. When words were called for, they tended to be tactless and blunt, the man preferring to get to the point rather than dance around the issue. Varric despaired, openly and often on Hawke's diplomatic skills and lack thereof. It was generally accepted that when a quite word and greased palm might yield better results than Hawke's unique brand of directness, it was best to approach the dwarf rather than the champion of Kirkwall.

Hawke was truthful though, even when the truth was detrimental to his cause. He seemed surprised that the dockhand thugs that he was trying to persuade to let him rummage around the crates for stolen lyrium did not appreciate his comments on their personal hygiene, and when the men had reacted poorly to his statement, he'd drawn his sword and told them to open the crates. He got things done... it had to be said, and as he strode away, happy with his success he did not see Varric desperately dip into his own coinpurse to 'compensate' the dockhands, lest the murderous look in their eyes translate to an actual attempt on Hawke's life.

After that, Varric had decided Hawke needed lessons in speaking to others, to save his own coin if nothing else. He asked Hawke to pretend Fenris was a qunari, and then urged Hawke to try and talk with him. It had taken hours, and Fenris had actually put his head in his hands at one point, declaring that Hawke would have just instigated all-out war between humans and qunari. At Fenris's behest, Varric had reluctantly given up on ever taming Hawke's tongue.

So when he had asked Fenris his opinion about the possibility of a little master-slave roleplay in the bedroom, Hawke had tried his best to soften his choice of words. He had spent honest-to-maker minutes to refine his query, aiming to protect Fenris's feelings and respect his past. It was not enough however, to stop Fenris storming off, glowing fierce as he slammed Hawke's bedroom door.

He had growled, and promptly taken himself off to the hanged man to ask Varric what had gone wrong.

"Let me get this right... You said 'and you'll be practised at that sort of thing'.. to the ex-slave...?" Varric had mopped up his ale that he'd spilt in shock of Hawke's confession, and looked at Hawke as if he was surprised Hawke still had his heart within his chest.

Hawke had nodded, dark hair falling over his face and mouth drawn into a tight line of pain. The dwarf sighed, then moved to remove the bottle for Hawke's hands. Hawke's grip was strong, but Varric was quick enough to claim the prize before the man could react. He put it back by his bedside table and turned to Hawke, exasperated.

"Oh no, you don't get rum of all things after ithat/i. You are going to go home, and think about how you are going to apologise... No wait, sod that, I'm going to write you an apology, and you are going to read it word for word and hope that Broody is so besotted by your smouldering eyes he forgets what an absolute arse you can be."

Three hours and fourteen drafts later, and Hawke was given a piece of paper, full of inked statements of remorse and regret, and promises not to say anything so dense again. He was drilled in the proper tone to adopt, sincere and sad, and Varric reminded him, at length, that Fenris could not read, and that this might be problematic if Hawke just handed the paper over. Hawke, desperate to make amends, let the dwarf fuss and fluster over the words. He let Varric repeat himself, trying to get it through to Hawke's head that any mention of slavery in the bedroom was now banned. That under no circumstance, was Hawke to try and find Fenris, that Varric would seek out the elf and sent him to Hawke's estate, when the elf was good and ready. Any earlier, and Fenris would be unlikely to hear out the beautifully crafted apology.

Tired, unhappy but trusting in Varric's wisdom, Hawke took the piece of parchment and folded it neatly. With slow, heavy steps, he took himself home.

It wasn't fair. He was a warrior, and give him a sword and he'd quickly and efficiently cut down any foe, and face any threat. He could use steel, and put the weight of his body behind blade to rend and destroy flesh. He could take the weight of heavy armour, and suffer the blows and still be standing to retaliate. He could stand in way of the mages or the archers, and block any attacks aimed at them using his own body as a shield, and then he could charge forwards and take the heads off the offending enemy.

Suddenly, that was not enough anymore. They expected him to be able to talk. To plan and scheme, and anticipate the goals of people he'd never met before. It was like asking him to conjure a fireball, and while he might wave his hand and take on the fierce look of concentration and pain, but there could never be so much as a flicker, no matter how hard he might try. So why in Thedas did everyone assume he had any skills what-so-ever in speaking? You didn't need to talk to be able to warn off a group of opportunistic muggers with your stance and glare alone, and starting a conversation talking rarely helped in the heat of battle. The most he had ever said in the midst of clashing steel was a rather hopeful command to 'Die!', followed up with a sweep of his weapon.

He knew he was direct, and that was often to his own detriment, but maker take them all, it was what he had been all his life. With massive sword in hand, it was hard to appear anything other than a fighter. There was no such thing as a well armoured envoy, and his physique lend itself too well to looming to put people at much ease for opening up to him with their problems. No, he was a warrior, and he was good at that. It was simple, there were two courses available, attack or surrender. To have offered surrender in the past would have seen Bethany dragged off by templar, so he had learnt to fight. With heart, and body, and sword, he would fight until the life left his corpse. He had been forced to fight for everything...

He'd tried to pass on the responsibility to those who were better versed at negotiating. He'd begged Varric to speak with the viscount in his stead, but the dwarf had no wish to play the part of the hero, and so Hawke had stood, awkward and aggressive at the desk and been asked his iopinion/i of all things. He had no idea of the conflict brewing, or how best to ease the tensions, so he had drawn on what he did know; 'the qunari bleed like any other.' he'd meant it as a reassuring statement, that if things with the qunari force camped in the docks were to go wrong, they would be able to deal with it. The viscount had taken it as a suggestion to forego talks and treaties, and finding out why they were there in the first place. The hostilities had increased, as a result. Perhaps, if someone had pay just a little more attention, found the book that the qunari sought, they could have avoided the bloodbath that had followed.

Guilt was a new emotion to him, and unwelcome. As a warrior, you did not feel sorry for those who were trying to kill you, and when they failed and you survived, you did not regret your actions. All this... talking, questions without answers, answers no-one wanted to hear, it seemed like the surest way to loss your mind. Hawke longed for the days where he had worked as a mercenary; go there, kill this. It was hard work, and dangerous, but blissful in its own bloodied way.

Now he had to deal with Dalish artefacts, and mage manifestoes. Darkroads and politics and blood magic and chantries, and his head spun to try and understand all that his sword could not cleave. He felt helpless in their wake, these strange concepts that seemed to dance over his head, out of reach and beyond his control, ready to drop down upon him at a moments notice. His friends came to him with their problems too, and while he had listened intently, his advice always seemed to be wrong. Everyone seemed to agree that taking a spirit of justice into yourself was a pretty awful idea, but when he had said as much to Anders, the collected diamondback played had been shocked at the statement. So he quietly gave up on ever being able to speak without causing someone offence.

He didn't want to, and dearly wished he had the understanding to prevent his words hurting those around him. He was honest, but despite what his mother had always told him, it seemed anything but the best policy.

Lovers however, were supposed to be truthful to each other, and how could he deny the fact that to have Fenris, submissive and sublime, send a shiver of greed through him right to his core. Ever since Fenris had spoken of his time as a slave, Hawke had been fascinated. He had bit his tongue on such desires, but the more he thought of Fenris, lithe and strong and entirely at his command, the more he found himself wanting, no, needing, to see that side of him.

To see Fenris, without his defensive gruffness, or habit of pushing Hawke's hands away when their lingered on his tattoos. To not have the elf grab him and hurry him to completion when he tried to slow things down, or take time in admiring his bedpartner. To i see/i Fenris, savour him. To finally feel like he had some control over the situation, and for once, things would go his way. That for just one night, he had some form of mastery over his life.

Now, through his fat tongue's folly, he'd be lucky if Fenris ever even spoke to him again, never mind letting him sink deep into that tight perfectly taunt ass.

He let himself in, and crept up the stairs to him bedroom, bracing himself for a lonely night with only his hand for company. Opening the door, and stepping inside, he nearly didn't see Fenris save for the shock of white hair level with his hand still on the door handle.

Fenris was kneeling by his door, as if in wait, naked save for a thick black collar around his neck, a glint of metal from the hoop sitting central at his throat. Lyrium threads swept over tan skin, and his hands were clasped behind him. Fenris's head was bowed, but on seeing Hawke enter, a tightness rattled through his body, every muscle tense and ready.

"You're not supposed to be here." Hawke said, opening his mouth before his brain could fully catch up with the scene laid out in front of him. Fenris let the surprise of seeing him settle, and then looked up, bright eyes fixed on Hawke as he held his posture. Hawke licked his lips, then started to fumble in his pocket. He pulled out a piece of paper.

Fenris let his mask of submission slip, and gave a infuriated sigh. "Hawke..."

"Hold on... Right. Fenris, my act of ineptitude puts me to shame. I can only offer my most heartfelt admission of my error, and pray you can forgive my-"

"Hawke..." The 'h' was harder this time, Fenris's hidden hands clenching in frustration.

"Shut up, I'm trying to apologise... Oh nug-bits, pretend I didn't just tell you to shut up."

"Hawke." there was a finality to his tone, and Hawke glanced up from his parchment, large hands crumpling it.. "Before I lose my nerve and my temper, put the damned paper away."

The champion blinked, slowly, and then tossed the paper behind him. Without taking his eyes from Fenris, he closed the door, then took a step forward, watching how Fenris had to crane his neck to keep eye contact. The sight of the elven warrior, so strong and sure in battle, on the floor like that made his heart jump, and a warm pleasant flush flood through his body.

He reached out to stroke against Fenris's cheek, the soft flesh still under his fingertips. He let out great exhalation, and stared, unable to even being to think of words he could say.

Fenris coughed, and then spoken in a different voice, softer, i smaller/i. "I take it this slave pleases you...?" There was tension under the soft lilt, Fenris fighting to force the words out, but the sound sent a jolt straight to Hawke's cock regardless. He moved to place two fingers under the elf's chin, and tipped his head upwards, the line of his neck taunt at the angle.

"Are you.. OK with this...?"

Fenris gave a small nod as best he was able with his chin tilted so high, and Hawke marvelled at his lover. He removed his hand, and saw how Fenris held the pose, eyes cast forwards. He gave a low rumble of approval, and moved to circle the elf.

Hawke watched Fenris, observing the smoothness of tan skin over lean muscle. His footfalls were heavier than normal as he paced in a slow circuit around the elf, and he quietly noted the heady pleasure in the power Fenris had passed to him. It made him feel stronger, his every move deliberate and unquestionable. It was interesting to take on such a role, have it settle over him like a velvet mask, but he knew Fenris would be at odds with his part. As a test, he said nothing, simply walked and watched, waiting to see if Fenris would call a halt, to see that Fenris was willing to play by his rules for the night. As enticing as Fenris was, kneeling and naked, he would not proceed without the reassurance that Fenris was entirely consenting, even if right out of his comfort zone.

The atmosphere in the room grew heavy, the silence permeating the air till it felt like every breath and heartbeat would be audible. Finally, after he had decided enough time had passed to give Fenris fair chance to bow out, he stopped and stood in front of him, himself still fully clothed. Fenris did not lift his eyes, merely stared forwards, at hips level. No doubt he'd be able to see the bulge forming under Hawke's trousers.

"Hmmmm. I am ivery/i pleased..." He could see Fenris's chest shudder as he lost the pace of breathing at his words. Hawke let a slow smile creep across his face.

"Stand." he commanded.

As Fenris lifted one knee to his chest and gracefully drew himself upright, he did not move to unclasp his hands, holding them behind him. It was a practised movement, and Hawke could see that he had been right when he had guessed that this would not be something new to Fenris. He swallowed thickly, both excited and disturbed by the realisation.

The elf did not flinch as he reached to stroke against the bone of his hip, and then firmly rub across the chest. Hawke breathed deep, so rarely permitted to touch Fenris as he pleased and enjoying the feel of soft skin under his fingertips.

"I could stand here and pet you all day... You are so very beautiful. I don't often get a chance to admire you properly... "

When Fenris simply stood, and gave no reply, Hawke paused, contemplating. He ran a fingertip across one of the boarder lyrium brands, and tipped his head at the elf, watching for reaction. Fenris drew a quick breath, and he could felt a slight shift under the pad of his digit as the elf fought to stop his body squirming from the contact. He dipped his eyes downwards to see what he has always suspected, that flesh between his legs, already starting to stiffen, pulsed at the contact with the mark.

"You don't want to admit it, but you ilike/i it when I touch your tattoos..."

Fenris froze for a second, like he might pull away. Instead, he bowed his head slightly, "Yes mast-" He faltered, and his throat bobbed repeatedly, as if he might choke on the word 'master'.

Hawke stepped forwards, closing the space between them, and curled a hand around the elf's face, palm against the jaw, fingers brushing over cheek and thumb resting at the corner of his mouth.

"You will call me M'lord." he said after rummaging through his head for other, less poisonous honorifics, and he could feel Fenris's throat relax in response.

"Yes m'lord." It was like a long exhale, some of the unease slipping away, to finally answer the question. An admission, that normally Fenris would not have considered voicing. There was something to be said then, for pushing past his inner defences and Hawke took a quiet pride in the confession. He gave Fenris a reassuring squeeze on his shoulder, and thumbed the lyrium lines upon his chin. Fenris's eyes softened, hazing in and out of focus. They fluttered shut, as Hawke applied the slightest scrape of fingernail to them, and Hawke gave a low chuckle.

"Oh... I think I have found something better than just petting... "

He ran a clawed hand up the exposed back, slow enough that Fenris arched his spine in gradual increments as fingernails dug against skin, and lyrium, and nerves. He repeated the movement, applying more pressure, watching as the curve of Fenris's back became more extreme. He lowered his hand again, and Fenris tensed, anticipating the bite of nails. This time, however, instead of fingernails Hawke used the wide flat of his hand, smoothing over the flesh, and feeling Fenris's ragged breath as the sensation he was expecting never came.

He did not exactly stumble, but Hawke saw the muscles of his lyrium'd legs tightened and his toes curl as he tried to force his body to remain still under Hawke's assault. Fenris so rarely showed any signs of weakness, it was novel to be able to see him fighting to keep from writhing, from letting his knees collapse. No wonder then, that the elf protested touch to such an extent, when it could leave him so helpless after only a few well placed caresses. Hawke thought he could understand his lover better now, and that Fenris had willing allowed him free reign to see just what his hands could reduce him to, it brought a warm feeling that had nothing to do with his blood pounding in his ears and cock across him.

With a grin Hawke set about trying to break past Fenris's resolve, taking full advantage of the freedom Fenris had handed him. He pressed his lips to the skin of Fenris's neck, kissing, then dragging teeth, until Fenris's breath hitched. He sucked a mouthful of flesh and held it, running his tongue over and tasting the tang of sweat and delicious heat of the elf.

Steadying Fenris with a firm hand against the small of his back, the other on his hip, he pressed deep into the neck, able to feel every breath, feel the beat of blood under his lips, his tongue, his teeth. Fenris squirmed, then tried to straighten and stay still, only to lose himself again briefly as Hawke laid a particularly heavy kiss onto the bruise forming in the hollow of his collarbone.

"Hmmm, I love how good you taste. I could lick you all over, reduce you to a shivering mess with just my tongue... And you'd let me, wouldn't you...?"

"Yes m'lord." Fenris evidently found it hard to speak, with Hawke's mouth closed in over his throat, pressing down on the collar, pulling at the thick leather, sucking and nibbling. Hawke chuckled, and trailed his tongue up the line of lyrium to Fenris's mouth, and pressed in for a kiss. He held Fenris tight, so that the elf couldn't wriggle away, and lavished a series of slow laps past Fenris's passive lips. It was a heady rush, to be able to kiss Fenris without the elf trying to hurry the pace along. He was used to being interrupted by a restless growl, or, when that didn't work, Fenris cupping his hand against Hawke's manhood meaningfully, making it rather difficult to take time over the act of exploring his mouth, sharing breath, ikissing/i.

He trapped Fenris's lip in between his own, and squeezed, then licking at the sensitised opening. Fenris made a soft sound, and Hawke hungrily devoured it, hand moving from hip in a slow stroke up to curl around the back of Fenris's neck, holding him by the collar so the elf had to let Hawke delve as deep as he liked with his tongue. He noted that although Fenris was trying to keep as still as possible, the wet heat of his own tongue did move and reach to touch his own, sliding against each other as Hawke drank in taste of Fenris's submittance.

A sudden pinch to the soft skin of his rear made the elf gasp. Hawke moved to grasp the other cheek between thumb and forefinger, but paused as his hand skimmed across the crease of Fenris's ass.

He pulled his fingers back, and observed the slight sheen that clung to them. He rubbed the pad of his thumb against them, and felt the frictionless glide of oil.

"What is this...?" he asked softly.

Fenris did not look at him, and he saw the elf struggle to swallow, as if he had a stone in his mouth. "I..." He gave a tiny cough to clear his throat, "I have prepared myself for you m'lord."

Hawke swayed on his feet, then, before the giddiness that suddenly filled his head caused him to fall, sat down upon the bed heavily. He had not expected Fenris to have gone to such lengths, for the experience to be so iintense/i. The part of him that made him a poor mercenary and a great champion, that questioned orders and tried to do the right thing, pulled at his mind. This was dangerous, Fenris was in too deep, ran the risk of drowning in his past if Hawke was not careful. As if to prove the point, Fenris was slow in turning to look, and even as he did so, it was timid, as if he anticipated anger or punishment for such self-direction.

Hawke felt his chest tighten, suddenly unsure. "Fenris... Fenris I think we should stop."

He knew there was a weakness to his voice, betraying that fact that his body definitely did not think that they should stop. His cock, certainly, was adamant that he should push the elf against the nearest wall, grab his hips and sink into that delicious oiled tightness i right now/i. It was hard to be convincing when his trousers were quite so tight across his groin, and his breath came in thick pants.

Fanris's eyes looked into his own, and he found himself relieved that Fenris was finally meeting his eyes, instead of them staring ahead like a tranquils'. He blinked, and it was as if the mantle of the slave-role slipped from him. He held himself straighter, and let his hands fall to his sides. He pursed his lips, and turned so that he was facing Hawke where he sat upon the bed.

"I thought this is what you wanted..?" he said, softly, just a hint of accusation in his voice. Or perhaps it was disappointment, it was hard for Hawke to tell, his own lust and guilt making it hard for him to think clearly.

"It is..." Hawke answered, voice almost a whine as he struggled to make sense of the battery of emotions crowding his head. "but I don't think its what iyou/i want..."

Fenris laughed then, and gave a sweeping gesture with both his palms to indicated his hardness, jutting out from his body. Hawke stared, then tried to convince his tongue that it was not a lump of lead sitting in his mouth.

"I uh.. That's very nice..." Fenris gave an amused snort at hawkers stumbling words, "But.. This is too much. I don't want to hurt you... Don't want to..." Hawke trailed off, but the words unsaid hung in the air, i don't want to bbreak/b you. /i

Fenris gave a soft sigh, and crossed his arms in front of him. The toes of one foot lifted and fell, tapping as he watched Hawke sitting miserably on the bed. With a single shake of his head, he took a step forwards.

"Hawke. I have lived as a slave, and have seen first-hand the multitude of ways a master can hurt his property. And yet, I still came and waited for you. Naked, collared, iprepared/i. Not just because you wanted it, not even because I wanted it too, but because I trust you." He unfolded his arms, and moved them behind him, forcing his chest forwards as he clasped them together at the wrists, sitting in the small of his back. He gave Hawke a quick flash of a smile, before he sank to his knees, and looked up at Hawke, submission filling his eyes again.

"This slave wishes to please you." The voice was sincere, almost a plead. Hawke's reservations vanished as he reached forwards to cup Fanris's head in his hands and place a kiss upon the forehead, catching strands of white on his lips as he did.

"Right..." Hawke breathed, then gave himself a nod, dragging his voice to a more confident cadence, "iRight. /iNew rules though, you may.. No, you will look at me. I want to see you see me looking at you, wanting you. And you may move as you like. Pretty as you are, I'd rather you didn't resemble a statue or a piece of meat. Are we clear?"

"Yes m'lord." Fenris seemed more at ease that he did not have to hold pose, and Hawke carefully watched his eyes for signs of distress. His eyes were more focused, less glossy and Hawke liked the way they tracked his face, searching for his approval. He granted a slow smile.

"Good. Now, help me out of my armour."

He remained sitting and held out an arm at a time, letting Fenris stand and undo the buckles and knots and odd pieces of wire he used to keep his armour secure over his large frame. It made the armour-smiths cringe to see Hawke's 'adjustments', but Hawke found it hard to give too much notice after losing a bracer, followed by nearly losing his arm during a particularly unpleasant battle with a shade, who had oozed through the gap in the armour and burnt away the straps. Ever since, he made sure that his armour was as abomination (and qunari, and golem, and dragon) proof as possible, by re-enforcing every buckle and tie with whatever he could get his hands on.

The downside was that getting in and out of his armour was a long affair, that he had grown to loathe. Seeing Fenris however, working nimble fingers past the plates and unlacing the fastenings, redeemed the armour somewhat, and he made a note to ask Fenris for his help more often, if only so he could see Fenris grace him with such a look on concentration.

His arms free, Fenris moved to the chest pieces, pausing for Hawke to give a nod to go ahead. The elf did not say a word, but was strangely serene as he helped Hawke shed his outer skin of metal and leather. The shirt beneath was silk, one of the few admission Hawke made to the noble way of life, but in typical Hawke style was made practical, the fancy embroidery cut from it and worn under the armour with no thought for the staining it sustained from exposure to dark-dyed leathers. The result was a grubby garment that would have made the original tailor weep.

Fenris did not lift the silk shirt off, and Hawke realised he had only given instruction to help him with the armour. He rose, Fenris backing away to give him room to get up from the bed, and then looked to the elf expectantly. Fenris hurried back, and started to tug and pull at the tangled mess that was the ties holding Hawke's greaves tight against his legs, so that they did not shift and rub. He knelt, for ease of seeing what he was trying to unknot, and Hawke saw that between his limber legs, his erection had not lessened in the slightest.

As the last piece of armour was removed, and then set gently aside in a tidy fashion that would likely be kicked over before morning arrived, Hawke placed a hand on Fenris's shoulder, stopping him from getting up from the kneeling position.

"Undo the lacing of my trousers."

Fenris did as he was bid, fingers light and damn-near dancing across the straining hardness held behind the tight leather. Hawke gave a low rumble of approval, and hooked his fingers against the waistline of the breeches and pushed them down, dragging his smalls with them. Fenris's face was close enough he could feel the elf's breath on his manhood, and it delighted him to see Fenris look up, and lick his lips.

"May I...?" he faltered again, but his eyes betrayed the raw need and lust where his voice failed. Hawke though, wanted to hear the words, and stared down as he stepped from the leather gathered round his shins.

"What? Say it."

"May I please suck your cock m'lord?"

Hawke felt shivery and flushed, all at once, and his mouth ran dry as he tried to think what a suitably dominating reply would be, rather than utter the 'oh yes please' that had first sprang into his head. He paused, his blood pulsing hot and hard up the length of his shaft, when he finally managed to growl out "Do it."

It was only as the perfect circle of Fenris's mouth slid over him, that Hawke realised he was still standing. He shifted his heels out, and locked his knees, going against every piece of battle training to make sure he did not collapse onto the elf servicing him. It would hardly do to reward such a firm and diligent mouth with the full weight of a warrior crushing down.

Fenris worked the skin of his shaft with the flat of his tongue inside his mouth, and every breath seemed just enough so that he could keep the suction enveloping the head. There was a little noise of discomfort as he swallowed a little further down Hawke's length, and his eyelids drooped closed as he struggled to open his throat to accommodate the thick and heavy flesh filling him.

Hawke reached down and gave the collar around his neck a tug, sharp enough to jolt Fenris from his rhythm and have to pull back to claim air. Hawke allowed this, but tugged at the collar again to urge Fenris to meet his eyes.

"Look at me." he said, and was surprised at the low growl that hung from his voice. Fenris gave a little nod, Hawke's fingers still between leather and his neck, and swivelled his eyes upwards, before plunging wet heat down upon Hawke's cock once again. He could feel the hint of teeth behind pulled back lips, the pressure and seal perfect around his girth, and the tongue working to both tease the flesh, and struggle against swallowing. He knew his knees and restraint would not last long under such attentions, but managed to hold himself from calling a halt to the tug of suction, and intense heat till he could feel that his release was imminent.

He could have been more gentle, at once forcing his hips back and his fingers on the collar tightening and pushing Fenris's head away, just in time before he lost all control, and he almost was not able to catch the thin reedy noise of his body protesting the loss from escaping his lips. Heavy breathing, both his and Fenris's, masked the sound, and he was able to stagger to the bed, falling down upon it before his legs gave out.

Fenris stayed where he was, kneeling, but watching Hawke, working his jaw quietly to ease the feeling of being forced open for too long. Hawke, still in his silk shirt, shifted himself so that his head rested upon the pillows, on his back. He cast his eyes over Fenris, and then extended a hand and with a single crooked finger, beckoned him over.

Fenris icrawled/i, and Hawke had not before thought about how the sight of strong muscles and bare skin, slinking over the floor could be anything but derogatory. Now though, he wished his bed was further away, just so he could watch the careful movements, knee to floor then hand to floor, hips rocking and shoulders rolling, for just a moment more. Fenris was graceful, but his eyes were fierce and strong, watching Hawke and drinking in the effect his actions were having.

"Maker's knuckles but you look good... " Hawke breathed finally, as Fenris came to rest and knelt by the bed, leaving just enough room that he would be able to rise without knocking his kneecaps against the bedframe. While his mouth remained expressionless, Hawke caught the flicker of both mirth and pride at his words, and for once, was pleased that he had not managed to cause offence by speaking his mind. This, this was what he had wanted, to be able to tell Fenris how marvellously sexy the elf was, without Fenris able to tell him he was being sentimental, or ridiculous, and move the conversation onwards as fast as he was able. The master-slave element might have been a bit of an extreme measure, but he'd been tickled by the idea of Fenris ihaving/i to listen, having to hear him out and not being able to cut down his compliments. That to see Fenris in a collar made his heart pump hard was also a rather pleasing revelation.

He extended a hand and smoothed Fenris's white hair, his fingers lingering on the soft strands. He repeated the gesture, turning onto his side on the bed and stroked from the crown down the back of his head till his fingertips brushed against the collar hanging around his neck.

"Your hair is soft, and though you don't like to be seen to make a fuss over your appearance, you must wash it regularly to keep it so very white." he said softly, petting Fenris like an animal but looking at him with absolute adoration. He could see that Fenris wanted to squirm under the statement, his eyes briefly darting downwards before he remembered he was to keep eye contact. Mouth tightened to a thin line, and Hawke wanted very much to see the day when he could give Fenris praise and the elf not fight against it.

"I wonder though at the length. You're not one to hide behind anything in battle, and you do not try to hide your ears like some other elves. I think you try to hide your eyes behind your hair, your eyes and your handsome face. It's a pity." Hawke brought his hand to Fenris's forehead, and swept the hair back and smiled. "Very nice." he murmured, and brought his other hand out to caress against the high ridge of cheekbone.

Even though he was hardly applying any pressure, Fenris's resolve broke, and he turned his head sharply from the touch. Surprised, and a little disappointed that Fenris would not tolerate a more gentle form of tactile admiration, Hawke leaned forwards. With hesitation, he grasped the back of Fenris's head, pale hair clutched in his fist, but trying hard not to pull more than necessary to get Fenris to keep his head still.

"The good thing about the length however, is that it is so easy to keep a hold of..." He said, voice hardening, searching Fenris's face for signs that he had gone too far. If anything, Fenris seemed relieved that the pressure of keeping his own head still had been taken from him, and when Hawke's hand came to brush against his cheek a second time, he did not so much as blink in protest.

"Oh..." Hawke was honestly taken aback by the reaction, and tightened his grip on the handful of hair experimentally. When Fenris did not only permit this, but tilt his head to accommodate the tug of his hair, and the pupils of his eyes grew larger, Hawke was again struck by the sense that this was not just his fantasy... That Fenris for all his contentions about slavery, was also enjoying himself immensely.

Using Fenris's hair as leverage, he gave an upwards pull, watching how Fenris moved with his fist to his feet. He could not reach high, lying on the bed, so the elf had to bend at an awkward angle as Hawke manoeuvred him to join him on the bed.

"Let us see just how 'prepared' you are... " Hawke knew there was the hint of a malicious smile on his face, but did not feel the need to correct it or apologise for it. Such was the freedom of being in control, and knowing that Fenris was strong enough to tell him if he should push too far. He tightened his fist slightly, and commanded; "Down."

Fenris had to take a little time to rearrange his legs to grant him room to move, but backed up till Hawke could feel oil brush against his cock. He'd released the hair, but had let a single finger hook into the silver metal ring of the collar, and hang there, feeling Fenris swallow as he started to push against the hard flesh of his erection. That rippled ring of muscle, so tight, felt like fire against the head of his member, and Hawke dragged a breath into his lungs as Fenris willed his body to accept the intrusion. Oiled as he may have been, he entrance had long since closed up, and Fenris fought to bring his rear downwards, the tightness stealing Hawke's breath as slowly, wondrously slowly, he filled the elf straddling his lap.

Fenris's insides felt like heated silk, and as the Fenris finally managed to plant himself down against Hawke, he felt like he might burst there and then, to the black city with his warrior's stamina. Hawke desperately thought of ice spells and the high cleric Elthina naked in effort to calm himself, and after a few moments, the glorious clench of Fenris around him seemed more manageable. He'd have liked to stay like that, Fenris upon him, watching how the elf had to shift to receive his length buried deep within. He would have given almost anything to hold onto the moment, perfect in its intimacy.

It was Fenris's eyes however, usually clenched shut or focused at some distant point above their heads, that undid him. He could see the effort it took him to sink down, and the need to have imore/i. Nothing was hidden, nothing secret as he saw Fenris's face grow wide and needy. He reached a hand up, and cupped Fenris's face, feeling the sweat dampening the skin.

"You set the pace. I want to see you fucking yourself on me."

There was an uncomfortable instant when Hawke feared he'd finally found a line to cross, but when Fenris gathered himself onto the balls on his feet, and placed both hands upon Hawke's hips, all thought and trepidation was lost in a blaze of flesh sliding into flesh.

Fenris set a hard pace, and through the fog of sensation Hawke tried to remember that he need not be so gentle with the elf in future, that his preference seemed to be for a more rapid and forceful experience. Hot, as the elf plunged downwards, hot and tight and the bed creaked with the weight of the elf slamming himself against Hawke. Hawke found himself unwittingly holding onto the collar like a lifeline, causing Fenris to bow his head as his thighs worked up and down. He could see Fenris's face, brows furrowed but mouth hanging open in a soundless cry, and eyes growing increasingly unfocused.

He set his shoulders against the mattress, and as Fenris slide himself down, he jerked hips iup/i. It was worth it for the half grunt, half whimper alone, and he saw Fenris pause, caught out by the deep sensation. He made a small noise to the back of his throat, and Hawke realised his bedpartner was nearing his limit, but was trying to hold back for his sake.

He missed at first, as he tried to close a hand round the elf's erection bobbing before him. When his hand finally touched upon the hardness, he barely managed to touch fingers and thumb together when he felt blood pulse and saw a sudden flush of colour as Fenris spilt himself across Hawke's belly and chest. His body convulsed, and though Hawke would not have thought it possible for the elf to get much tighter, the squeeze of muscle against himself was enough to send him over the edge.

The finger fell from the collar, and all the raw energy filled the air seemed to dissipate as he found release, leaving him in a contented daze as he slumped into the warm and ready mattress.

He was vaguely aware of Fenris detaching himself and using the bedsheet to wipe himself as clean as he could. He removed the collar, before settling down beside Hawke, settling against his chest, an arm between them like a shield.

"You would have made an excellent sex slave... " Hawke said, then his body stiffened in horror at the words he'd let slip. "Ah! Forget that... Please forget I just said that."

Fenris, his skin and hair still sweat soaked, propped himself up on his forearms and gave Hawke a slow shake of the head, hair hanging heavy over his forehead. "I'll take it as a compliment."

Hawke's chest heaved in relief, and Fenris shuffled to lay his head upon the expanse of dark hair and solid muscle.

"Before you start to apologise, because I know you will, I enjoyed that. More than just enjoyed, I liked that you took charge. I would very much be willing to repeat this eve's .. activities." Fenris's voice had lost its harsh edge, and his eyes, thought still bright and clear, seemed much less critical than normal. Before Hawke could open his mouth to reply, Fenris cut in, his tone regaining a hint of his usual sharpness; "That is not to say that you are not an idiot."

"I... uh... I'm sorry?"

Fenris laughed, a low brief noise, but it served well to clear the air and Hawke's sudden guilt and embarrassment. "I already said you need not apologise. Has the dwarf drummed his dire warnings into you so deep you cannot speak without automatically stating you are sorry as a defensive mechanism?"

Hawke said nothing, his blood ebbing from thundering quite so loudly through his veins, his head clearing somewhat.

"I know you Hawke. I had gathered that you had.. Dominant leanings. I know that you are truthful to a fault, and I have learnt to accept that."

"But you should not have to 'accept' that I can be a dundering fool..." Hawke offered weakly.

"You and I, we are both warriors, trained in swordplay and battle. I understand the difficulty you have. As a slave, I was taught, at length, to keep my mouth shut, after all, all anyone wants to hear from a slave is 'yes master'. But yourself, people ask you questions, encourage you for your thoughts. I have been at your side long enough to know it is an enormous thing they ask of you. I do not think iI/i could manage half as well were our roles reversed, and I am very glad they are not."

Hawke's head, still pleasantly humming, automatically fixated on the idea of role reversal, and he had to shove it aside in order to hear Fenris out, the elf not usually so open.

"It was my own attraction to the idea of playing a slave that send me off in such a strop, and I apologise for that."

"What changed your mind?"

"You. I trust you, fully, completely, and can not think to deny you any happiness... No matter how bluntly you might request it."

Hawke moved and let an arm fall across Fenris's shoulders, and for once, the elf did not shrug it off. He gave a half grin, which then turned serious as he contemplated the repercussions of the evening.

"Does it not bother you? I don't want to make you relive your past, not just to make me happy."

Fenris's nostrils flared, and he gave Hawke a long stare before speaking. "There is a certain joy to be found in submitting to another's will, when it is someone you trust... To just take command and follow, it is a much simpler way of being, and not entirely without merit. I would not normally allow someone else such power over me, but with you... I do not mind."

The guilt nagging at his mind lifted, as he could see it from Fenris's point of view. Freedom would be a daunting prospect, and the desire to find something more definite than all the shades of grey the world was coated in was something he could relate to.

Hawke gave a nervous smile, and held Fenris close. "Hmmm, I can well understand the appeal of just doing what you are told to... How do you feel about switching roles, for next time?"

Fenris's look took a while to settle from the surprised arch of both eyebrows, but when it did, there was a definite gleam of promise shining in his bright green eyes.

The end.

the prompt:

checked all the other requests, and I didn't see this there, but still, if this is a repeat then feel free to ignore. Also, a part of me feels like I'm going to hell for wanting this as much as I do.

Usually, Hawke is the dominant partner and tops, but it's no longer enough. Knowing that Fenris used to be a slave turns him on, and just once he wants Fenris to be that level of submissive to him. However, he knows how sensitive Fenris is about his past, so he does the polite thing and asks first if the elf would be willing.

He is not. By any stretch of the imagination (writer!anon can make Fenris as pissed off about the suggestion as they like).

The subject is completely dropped until one day Hawke comes home and finds Fenris kneeling on his bedroom floor, waiting for him (clothes and/or collar optional). Roleplay sex ensues.


End file.
